They Call Me The Breeze
by celtic goddess of fertility
Summary: As Bruce Wayne rises through the ranks of the League of Shadows, he makes an invaluable friend, a misfit cast out from society, who helps him discover himself and so much more. Rated T for safety.
1. From Me to You

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

They are going to assign me to someone new. I run my free hand through my short, dirty blonde hair as I take one more look at the crumpled paper in my other hand, reading the name, which followed mine, of their new torture toy and a number, most likely a time.

_Bree - Wayne_

_19:00_

I thought my brief stint as nursemaid to the lost souls that wander through this place had ended a few months ago, when my last subject died. Apparently, Ducard has different plans.

It is almost time to meet this Wayne. Already, my previous feelings of hate for this duty that I thought I had escaped some months ago bubble up in me. This is worse than anything that I have suffered through here. It is excruciatingly painful for me. I have seen so many men die here, throwing their lives away for reasons I cannot see that a little part of me dies inside every time.

I consider wearing my jacket, but he's going to find out what I am sooner or later, so I leave it and leave my room, starting toward the front room, paper clutched in my hand. Thoughts bombard my mind once again.

How I wish I could leave this mountain. Feel the wind styling my hair again, feel the rush of freedom. But the tattoo in between my shoulder blades weighs me down, now more than ever because I'm thinking about it, and I know that I can't leave. They have people in every corner of the world, and they would dispatch me if I ran.

This whole nurse business is ridiculous too. None of them trust me enough to let me fix them up. They're scared of me. A room full of hostile ninjas? No problem. But one little genetic mutant and they run like pansies. It's not my fault that I was born a freak. I probably could have been a nice person, with a nice family and a nice husband in a nice neighborhood.

I arrive in Ra's al Ghul's presence with my hands unconsciously clenched at my sides. I bow to avoid looking him in the eye, as is custom, but like always, it rips me to my core.

"Ah, Bree," Ducard says warmly, almost fatherly, as he steps from the shadows, "We have a proposition for you." I eye him warily when he says this, wondering what in the world they want to do to me now.

Ducard pauses for a moment, so the Ra's man himself says, "You are no longer worthy to us. Your usefulness has expired."

"I've heard this speech before," I say after a second's silence, growling to hide my fear. My eyes are already running to the escape routes, looking to see how many people guard each.

"We would as soon destroy a Monet painting as a masterpiece like yourself," Ducard says gently, trying to sooth me. It seems as if _they've_ saved me again, like always.

"Ra's al Ghul has been gracious enough to agree to let you go free on one condition," Ducard continues smoothly, "We have a new recruit on his way. If he succeeds in the League of Shadows, with you as his guardian, then you will be released."

Why have they thrown me this bone of hope? There has to be some strings attached.

"What's the cache?" I ask carelessly, knowing that I will never flee this place except for maybe in death, but I don't want it to come to that.

"The only cache is that Mr. Wayne doesn't die," Ducard says. He seems sincere enough, so I foolishly grab the bone and run wild with it.

"Okay," I nod, unsure of my own actions. Is getting out of here more important than living? Maybe. "And if he … I" I correct myself when Ducard stops me with his stare, "If I fail?"

"Then we will have to take the necessary measures." They'll kill me. Or try to.

I agree silently by fading to Ducard's side. My new subject will be arriving soon, Ducard tells Ra's. We will wait. After about ten minutes of absolute stillness, the doors are thrown open, the wind howling through the room in an instant, and an entirely clothed figure falls inside. Ducard moves to greet him and the man holds out a tiny blue flower, the kind that Ducard likes for some reason unknown to me.

The man, it must be Wayne, looks around the room but fails to notice me in the shadows of Ra's al Ghul's chair. Oh boy, my work is cut out for me.

I analyze him silently from my position. He is tall and handsome, quite the looker in fact. He carries himself well, shoulders straight and chin high. He would look more suited to a business room, standing in front of executives of things I can't spell, than this dingy, dark room full of perils and death, if not for the pain slashed through his dark brown eyes that hardened them from coffee to stone.

Ducard smiles and puts a genial hand on the man's shoulder, before punching him in the gut. Wayne looks at Ducard in disbelief and betrayal as Ducard yells at him before counter-attacking. He is tired from his hike, and easily beaten.

Ducard waves me over with his hand. I come, like a pathetic dog.

"This is Bruce Wayne. You will watch over him," Ducard tells me.

I lean over Wayne and look into his fading brown eyes. There is still some life in there, for he reaches up and touches my face, confused by the presence of a woman, before moving his hand to stroke the feather-covered structures sprouting from my back.

"What is an angel doing among the shadows?" he whispers cryptically, and I am almost certain he is unaware that he just said that out loud, and then he slips under the warm blankets of unconsciousness.

I sigh once more, this hell will break me before too long, before picking up his prone body and struggling all the way back to my room, almost dropping him many times, but finally laying him on my mattress and sitting back, waiting for him to wake.


	2. Come Together

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

He's staring at me.

I wasn't in the room when Wayne woke up. I was arguing with Ducard about getting the man his own room, because God knows I'm not sharing forever. Then I walked back in to find him sitting up on my bed, rubbing his ribs.

Neither of us has moved since I opened the door. Finally, his stare is too much for me.

"Haven't you ever seen wings before?" I ask, faking annoyance.

"Yes," Wayne replies carefully, "But never on a human."

"Get used to it," I say, but my voice falters. I take a deep breath, and plunge forward, "My name is Bree. I'm going to be … your guardian."

"Bree? Is that short for anything?" Wayne asks politely. I give him points for retaining his composure.

"It's kind of a joke around here," I admit, "They call me Breezy."

"Breezy. That's nice," Wayne says, half-smiling. I half-smile back. I'm pretty sure full-blown smiles aren't allowed in the League of Shadows.

"What does being my guardian mean?" Wayne asks, beginning to stretch.

"I'm in charge of keeping you healthy and feeding you and stuff like that," I reply.

"Oh," was all that Wayne said.

I continue to talk, my nerves morphing into babble, "One of my only rules is that I can't interfere with your training or anything. I'm really only here if you need me, so if you don't or anything, I get the picture." Did I honestly just say that out loud?

"When do I start?" Wayne changes the subject quickly, and I feel eternally grateful and incredibly stupid. My social skills are sorely lacking.

"Um, Henri wanted you to see him as soon as you woke up," I say shyly.

"Where can I find him?" Wayne asks.

I shrug stiffly, "He's in the main foyer. Probably."

"Thank you, Breezy," Wayne says sincerely enough, before squeezing past me in the doorway.

As soon as he is out of sight, I flop on my bed and think about how much I miss living a life of hermitage, never having to interact with anyone. I never talk to Ducard or any of the others here. I do what I must than I retreat to my haven of a room. It's been so long since I've actually had to carry out my side of a conversation that I fear I've lost the ability.

Later that night, Wayne makes his way back to my room, knocking lightly. I leap from my bed as if it was covered in hot rocks, and throw the door open, a planned look of irritation sliding onto my face. When I see that it is in fact my subject, the look melts into one of submission. I hold the door open for him, and he steps inside and goes to sit on my recently vacated bed, lifting his shirt over his head as he does.

I freeze for a millisecond, and then remember what I mean to him.

"Decided to go with me after all?" I ask lightly, shooting for a joke.

Wayne actually smiles, and I think the man may have missed his calling as a saint.

"What have we got here?" I ask, remembering what exactly his success means to me.

"Just a little stitching job," Wayne grunts. Sure enough, a three-inch long gash flashes bright red along his side. I patch him up easily and quickly and step away from him as soon as I'm done.

"Thanks, again," Wayne says. Ducard must have shown him to his own room, because he leaves without another word. I am about to run after him to offer dinner, but I figure he'll come to me if he wants it. Instead, I sneak out my window for a calming flight across the mountains, mostly because I don't actually _want_ to see him again.

The next day, I navigate to his new room, breakfast in my hand. He answers, and grabs the food from my hand and hastily eats it.

"Missed dinner last night, did we?" I say, attempting another half-baked joke. He just nods, too hungry to answer correctly. I trail along to his training today, curious for once to know what they do. Ducard seems satisfied to see me there. Of course, I had to take the same training, but those are memories I generally block from my mind. But I figure that knowing what he's doing will only help me in helping him.

Ducard is intruding Wayne to ninjutsu, honing his already considerably-good fighting skills, and teaching him how to take a hit without showing pain and face his fears. Ducard's words dredge up my own memories from my training, and I let them fill my mind, using the same reason I used to come watch Wayne.

I focus on Wayne again, mentally going over what I would need tonight. Ice, lots of it. Some sort of Neosporin product for some minor cuts. Maybe I can even sneak him some painkillers. I feed him a small, sustaining lunch, and then go to collect my materials.

I meet Wayne at my room after his second training with dinner, which he gratefully takes. Then I begin to work my magic. I make him lie on a cot now instead of my bed, because I don't want him messing it up. He talks to me casually while I work sometimes, but I don't respond with more than three syllables. Most of the time, he broods. The next few days pass like this, easily and mostly wordlessly, and then one night he comes in with a dislocated shoulder and half of his minor scratches opened again.

I hadn't been there for his second training, so I drill him on his injuries.

"What the hell, Wayne?" I ask, "You had been doing so good."

"Yeah," Wayne says sheepishly through the pain, "They brought out sticks today."

As I set about fixing him up and giving him some much-needed painkillers that I had guilted someone into giving me, Wayne pops the question that I know he must have been dying to ask.

"How did you get like this, Breezy?" My mind registers at that moment that he hasn't once called me Bree, but that is only an avoidance technique, because I don't want to answer. Actually, I just don't know what to say. It has already been a few moments; I can't ignore him for much longer, so I shrug my shoulders.

"Breezy?" he says again, trying to pry the answer out of me.

I give in, not wanting this to become a rift, "My parents gave me up to a science as an embryo. When I was just a little puddle of goo they added some bird DNA to me to see what would happen." I gesture to the snow white wings that protrude from my back.

Wayne mumbles something. I barely even catch the sound he made, much less what he said.

"What was that, Wayne?" I ask politely, trying not to become angry.

"You can call me Bruce, you know," Wayne says, sidetracking. I give him a pointed look and he sighs before saying, "You must have been a part of the Avian Experiment."

"The what?" I blurt, my hands stopping their massage of Wayne's shoulder. They fall limply to my side.

"When I was about three years old, some scientists came to my father, pleading with him to fund this experiment they were planning. All they told him was that it was a project dealing with genetics. One of the scientists was my father's close friend, and he told Thomas that they were playing this so close to the chest so that others wouldn't find out and copy them. My father believed his friend, and gave them all the money they needed. Only after the fact did he find out what they were doing to human embryos."

He is looking at me with a new light filling his eyes, making the usual brooding look dissipate. He must be insanely curious now.

"Really?" is my witty response.

Wayne nods and then continues, "They added ten percent of a bird's DNA to you. I think they went through more than one hundred embryos before my father found out."

"One hundred?" I ask in disbelief, "That's like manslaughter."

"You must be the one that made it," Wayne says softly, reaching out to touch the soft feathers of my wings for the first time since that first night.

"How do you know all this?" I ask dumbly.

"I studied much of my father's career while in college," Wayne explains, "The Avian Experiment was always a favorite topic of debate in my classes."

"Oh, what did they always say?" I say, feigning polite interest even though my insides were burning with curiosity. I take up massaging his shoulder again.

"That it was unethical and inhuman … but if they could see you, I think they would change their minds." My hands are halted one more.

"Why … why do you say that?" I stutter.

"Because you're beautiful. A true miracle," Wayne says simply.

"But one hundred little babies? All ruined for no reason?" I say incredulously.

"Yeah, you're right," Wayne says to the floor, "The price outweighs the product. No offense," he adds jokingly, looking at me in the eye.

"None taken … Bruce," I try out his first name on my tongue. It tastes funny, but nice. I finish with him, and pat his back. He sits up, and stares at me again. This is a different stare though. He is looking at me in admiration and wonder, not fear.

"So, how do they … work?" he asks hesitantly.

"Well, the wings work like wings. I flap them and they make my fly. They are so big because that is the only way they will be able to carry me. But there are a lot of other components. My bones are hollow, like any bird, but they're stronger. My wing bones are especially strong. My heart beats almost three times as fast as yours and it gives me more endurance for flying, which I need. The same thing goes for my metabolism," I smile, thinking of all the food I consume just to walk around.

"That's amazing," Wayne breathes, thoroughly enraptured by me, the freak.

"Yeah," I say, shrugging off his enthusiasm with a blush rising to my cheeks. He takes my subtle hint, and rolls of the cot.

"Goodnight, Breezy," he says, walking stiffly to the door.

"Sleep well, Bruce," I say to his back, my eyes on my intertwined fingers, "You'll need it."

I am beginning to really like Wayne. He is anguished, life does that to people, but deep down he is sweet and unobjectionable. That's not good though. I don't want to get attached to him, knowing that he could die at any moment. I remind myself once more that he is my ticket out of here, and that that is the only reason I stand him. But that already sounds like a lie, even in my own head.


	3. One of These Nights

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

I am folding my few articles when Bruce walks in. I turn around and nod to him, but he doesn't move to the cot. He just leans up against the wall by the door, which he closed.

I ask him if there's anything wrong, and he says nothing is wrong with him, he's perfect. I frown, he's acting weirder than usual but I go back to folding my clothes. I finish and pick them up to put them away in my small dresser. I pass Bruce and steal a side glance at him. He's just watching me.

I put my clothes away and as I go to pass by Bruce again, his hands reach out and snake around my waist. I freeze where I am, my world a spinning top out of which I can make no sense. Bruce pulls me closer, so that I'm pressed up against him. I calculate my chances of escape, but find out I don't really want to.

His hand leaves a trail of fire along my body as he brings it to my face. He brushes my bangs back so that he can see my forehead. Then his hand wraps around my neck and he drops his lips to it, kissing me softly.

A gasp escapes me and I feel his mouth form a smile against my skin. My own hands are clenched by my side and adrenaline is pumping through my entire body, making me shake. Bruce's other hand takes one of mine, pressing it against his chest. I oblige carefully, completely unsure of what I'm doing as I put both my hands on his chest, and then around his neck. A picture runs through my head of me pushing him away, I'm stronger than I think he gives me credit for, that's one plus for being a part of the League of Shadows, I could probably get away from him.

My mind snaps from its reverie as Bruce starts moving his kisses up my neck to my face, cradling it in his hand. He pulls away a fraction from my mouth, and looks into my eyes, which have to be wide and frightened. He must see something he likes there, because he leans in again and presses his lips to mine. Another gasp tries to make itself out, but that parts my lips and only serves to fuel Bruce's fire.

He pulls away once more and whispers in my ear, "I've wanted this for a long time," before kissing me like he's never going to stop. We fall onto my small bed and he's everywhere, everything.

I shoot from my bed in a sweat. I peer into the darkness around me, though I know it's empty, it feels so heavy. My heart is pounding in my chest a million miles a minute and I know my face must be as red as a tomato. I cough to myself and shake my head a few times, trying to get rid of this feeling in me. My breathing is loud and ragged; all the night guards can probably hear it. Everyone can probably hear it.

Finally, I calm down enough to lie back on my bed, crushing the pillow into my face. This can't go on. But what is going on? Now I'm dreaming about him? This is ridiculous. It's probably just because he's the only man that's ever befriended me.

I can count my friends on my hands, and not one of them could I ever fall in … I choke on the thought. This can _not_ happen. I can't let it. I will not let it. I'm strong-willed; I can handle these ridiculous feelings and make them go away.

In the morning when I bring Bruce his breakfast, I am pleasantly surprised how easy it is to hide from him what is happening to me. Everything is normal, he's quiet and brooding as usual, I'm quiet and twitchy.

As we make our way out to start his training, he asks me how my night was.

"Fine," I say quickly, and then curse myself because he caught the speed with which my lie was delivered, "Good. It was good. You?"

"Fine," he responds. I look to see if he's making a joke, but he doesn't seem to be. That was one social skill I never got a handle on, even when I did interact with people every day.

Ducard starts lecturing Bruce on true justice, blah, blah, blah. I block out his voice easily. I don't need to here this "righteous" bullshit again.

A few minutes pass and they're finally ready to start the action. Ducard has introduced Bruce to gauntlets today, and Bruce wears them with ease. They have three hooked scallops protruding from one side. Ducard rushes Bruce and Bruce throws the gauntlets up to catch Ducard's.

This goes on for a bit longer, and then Ducard takes his off. Bruce must think this is a trick, because he doesn't charge immediately. He's smart. When they finally clash, Ducard whips out a sword from God-knows-where and strikes Bruce, who throws up his forearms for protection. The sword clangs against the metal gauntlet, and Bruce finds that it is trapped. He twists the sword out of Ducard's grasp.

Ducard gives him a rare grin. Bruce has done exactly what he should have. They take a short rest, and Bruce calls up to me. I hurry over.

"You took this training?" he asks me between breaths, a strange glint in his eyes.

"Yes," I say cautiously, "Why?"

"Let's see what you got," he challenges. I bark a laugh, but Bruce isn't kidding. I look to Ducard for some help; surely this is improper behavior for a trainee. He actually seems to be considering the idea though. Unbelievable.

"No," I say promptly, shaking my head.

"I haven't seen you fight in quite a while," Ducard says reflectively, "As I recall, you were very good."

"I was," I defend myself.

"Then prove it," Ducard dares me. He has offended me in that special way of his, so I oblige. I take off my jacket, stretching my wings to their full fourteen foot span, and throw it to Bruce, who has taken a seat on the snow to watch us.

"Swords?" Ducard asks.

"No," I reply, "No weapons. That will reveal the true fighter."

I know Ducard doesn't agree with me, we have sparred over this subject many times, but he is too caught up in the fight to argue.

We square off, circling each other. I am the first to attack, because I have no patience for these games. Ducard blocks my punch easily, returning one of his own. I grab his arm as I dodge to the side, and swiftly kick his exposed ribs. This pisses him off and he attacks with more fury. He gets a face shot and a couple of shoulder hits off before I evade him completely. We are separated again.

After circling a few times, I remember the first time I beat him. I wonder if he does. I decide to give it a shot because I'm pretty sure I can win if he doesn't remember.

I charge him, and aim a high kick to his face. Sure enough, he grabs my ankle, and twists it. One of the first things most people learn in any type of martial arts is to make their body spin with whatever appendage is being twisted. The advantage is that you don't break a bone. The disadvantage is that the other person is virtually in control.

But I have an extra advantage in these situations, and that would be two seven foot wings on my back. I push them and my one foot off the ground, so my body moves faster than Ducard can spin me, propelling myself up. As I pass by him, I flail my foot out, catching him square in the nose. He lets go immediately, and grabs his bleeding nose. I stop, assuming the fight is over.

Ducard glares at me, but then sticks out his hand and grins again, twice in one hour? He must be one drugs or something. I shake his hand, but I don't let my guard down. He notices the tension and nods satisfactorily.

Bruce gets up and hands me my coat and pats my back heartily. Ducard departs, telling Bruce that if he wants to lose, he can fight with me. Bruce looks at me, a strange hope in his eyes.

"Don't even think about it. I'd just have to fix you up later," I tease. Bruce doesn't argue. That's one of the things I like about him, or at least why me tolerate him. He doesn't talk much, and argues less.

We make our way back to the monastery and as the doors open for us, Bruce's hand grazes the small of my back, guiding me inside. I jerk away from him, my eyes trained forward. I don't know if he notices or not, because I refuse to look back at him. I depart from him quickly and without a word, because I have to go get his lunch. I bring it back to his room, where he is stretching.

He stands up and takes the food from my hands, but studies me while he eats. I am leaning against the door, devouring an apple. His stare isn't making me uncomfortable, because he is looking at me like a friend, instead of a freak.

We eat in silence, but it is an easy silence, not tense or uncomfortable.

Later that night, Ducard knocks on my door. I open it and a million predicaments fly through my mind, the one foremost is that he's going to attack me for making him bleed earlier.

"You're needed," he says, and then turns to go. The scenes in my head change drastically. Bruce must be in trouble, and lots of it if he can't come here himself. I hurry after Ducard.

We head out to a pavilion jutting out over the mountainside. There is a fire, and a figure huddled around it. It's Bruce. I sigh, he's still alive.

"He fell through the ice," Ducard says, his voice laced with disappointment. Bruce is shivering uncontrollably. He's still wearing his wet clothes.

I haul him to his feet, and start stripping him down. He was wrapped in a blanket, but I need a dry one. Ducard supplies me with one without even being asked. I wrap Bruce it in and start rubbing him down. He is furiously chafing his arms and Ducard tells him to concentrate on his chest. Bruce complies. I rush back inside to get him warm, dry clothes. Arriving back at the pavilion, I find Ducard talking seriously with Bruce so I stop outside the doorway, deciding to wait until Ducard is done speaking to go in.

He is telling him about his wife. I listen intently, because I have never heard this story before, and I forget everything that I was supposed to be doing.

Finally, Ducard notices me, and a look of anger flashes across his face, but then he gestures to Bruce, who is still shivering. I remember myself, and hold Bruce's clothes close to the fire so that when I give them to him they will be nice and toasty.

"Did you enjoy your little story time?" Ducard asks me venomously. I clench my teeth, but don't answer. He shouldn't have been talking so freely if he hadn't wanted me to know. I won't tell him that though, because I don't know what he will do.

"Thank you," Bruce says between chatters as I hand him his warm clothing. I leave, so that he can dress, and I don't go back. I am getting way too attached to Bruce, and I need to find a way to stop it. _Now_.


	4. My Eyes Have Seen You

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

**Author's note – Here is where I really messed with the time frame, at least for the movie. Just so you guys know :)**

Bruce is amazing. He's advancing through his training like no one I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot in my ten years here. He's already mastered weapon fighting, swords, gauntlets, etcetera.

It is strange, though, to watch him fight. He seems so different when it's just me and him. Then, he's warm and even a little talkative, but on the floor he's tough and closed and … deadly. I shiver at the thought.

I don't think Bruce knows what he's in for, and I can't warn him. It would be against my code of conduct. I'm only supposed to keep him healthy. If I could, I would scream at him to stop what he's doing before it destroys him. Like it destroyed me.

But, would I? I remember all too clearly Ducard's words to me when I first took this position. They're going to let me go if Bruce succeeds. That should be my only priority. That should be my only tie to Bruce Wayne. The strange friendship that has sprung up between us is clouding my vision, I can't see clearly what's right in front of me.

I feel torn. On one hand, I want Bruce to succeed so that I can escape. That is selfish of me, incredibly so, knowing what Bruce will have to go through to thrive in the League. But it's still my top priority. That is the only reason I don't reach out and grab his hand and save him from sinking into the darkness.

On the other hand, I _have_ become friends with him. I care about his well-being. I don't want to see him lost. All around, I feel like a horrible person.

Then it happens.

Bruce stumbles into my room, his eyes glazed over. They have drugged him to "rid him of his fears and embrace the darkness" or whatever. That was the worst part of my training, because the drug did nothing for me but give me a bad headache for my ten percent bird brain didn't take to it like a human's. And they still threw me in the lake.

He looks at me confidently. I wonder if he knows that they have done this to him.

"I've done it," Bruce whispers, and he seems proud of the fact.

"What?" I ask.

"I have conquered my fears. I have become my fears," he breathes, his voice husky. How much did they give him? "Ducard said that my initiation is fast upon us."

Initiation? Really? My heart leaps into overdrive.

"But … I don't know," Bruce continues, too out of it to notice my stiff back and crazed eyes.

"What? What don't you know?" I ask, freedom in sight.

"I don't know if I can do it," Bruce admits. My heart stops cold, just as suddenly as it had sped up.

"Of course you can," I say, but it comes out as a snarl. Bruce caught the edge in my voice, and it seems to sober him. He doesn't say anything more.

I swallow, bringing my voice down to a calmer lever, "Why do you doubt yourself?"

"What if this isn't what I really want?" Bruce asks, looking to me for some real guidance. He trusts me, I realize with a start. He wants to really know what I think about all of this bullshit. Now is the time to tell him.

"It's want you want," I mumble, the words only half-baked in my brain, "Otherwise you wouldn't have gone this far."

"I don't think I can finish," Bruce says slowly. Disappointment and rage flare up as one in me, and I start to yell at him.

"You HAVE to finish!" I scream, moving so that my face is right in his.

"Why?" Bruce's eyes become guarded; he doesn't understand my reaction to his doubts. He probably thought I would have been softer and helpful. That's what I thought too.

"Because!" I exasperate, and then the words slip from my mouth, and there is no way to take them back, "You're my ticket out of here."

Bruce is silent for a moment, his brain caught on this last statement. I scoff at him, but I don't know where it came from. Is someone else controlling my brain and my body? Because that's sure as hell what it feels like.

I sigh, trying to calm the trembling that has sprung up in my body. This is for the best, I tell myself. Hopefully, this will fuel his anger and he will finish the job. And I can't hide from that fact that only a few days ago I had thought seriously about this moment, when I would break his trust and sever our bonds.

"If you get through this alive, I get to leave, do you hear me?" I say, my voice quieter, but sterner, "You have to do it. I have to leave."

Wheels are turning in Bruce's head, I see them on his face as he realizes my true purpose, "So … all of this? Healing me, befriending me, it was all a ploy? You were using me?"

I don't respond, and he probably takes that as a yes.

He shakes his head in wonder, angry, but still curious. Probably as to how one person can be so evil.

"Well," he finally says, after a long few minutes, "I'm sorry to let you down then."

My eyes pop out of my head, and my mind starts racing, trying to think of the best way to motivate him. I could beg with him, tell him that they'll kill me if he doesn't finish. But he kind of hates me right now, so he probably doesn't care much if I live or die. I could tell him it was all a joke. Um, no. Stupid idea. A path springs into my head, and it seems plausible, but he'll most likely hate me more when it's over.

"Fine," I snarl, my mouth delicately lifting into an under-used sneer, "Quit."

Bruce hasn't expected this either, the surprise is on his face. I'm throwing him through so many loops, turning his vision of me upside down. But I can't stop now.

"I don't care. Let them kill you. Be a quitter. _Lose_," I don't know if Bruce is competitive or not, but if he is even the slightest, this will work.

"You're just like your father," the words bubble from the back of my brain. Ducard had told me about Thomas Wayne and his death right after Bruce had arrived, hoping that I would use the knowledge to spur Bruce on. That's exactly what I was doing.

"Weak," I add.

"My father wasn't weak," Bruce says menacingly. I hit a sore spot with this one.

"Yes he was, just like you. Unable to do anything. To weak to finish what he started, to weak to protect his family."

Bruce roars at me, leaping from his cot where he had sat so motionlessly through my tirade. He makes a grab at me, but I dodge out of the way. I _really _pushed the wrong button.

I dance out of his reach, each time he tries to catch me. Finally, he slumps back onto the cot, the drugs still slightly in effect, which was the reason I evaded him so easily. But he was far from done. I had hurt him, but I didn't expect a rebuttal. He wasn't going down without taking me with him.

"You're full of shit," he tells me something I already know, "You're not doing this to urge me on. You're doing this because you're scared."

"Yeah, I'm scared of never leaving this hell hole," I interrupt scathingly.

"No," he says, simple and blunt, "You're scared off getting close to me. I see it in your movements. You don't want to push me away. But you're too scared to keep me close."

I gape at him; I didn't know he was so insightful. I thought that I had done a rather good job of keeping my true feelings under wraps around him. My face is as smooth as a rock after a hundred years in a riverbed. But inside, I am burning alive.

"I'm not the weak one here. But fine, if you're too afraid to let me in, then I'll leave," Bruce says as he gets up. He has hit the bulls-eye. I keep my unbreakable poker face in place though, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain. He doesn't slam the door. He closes it softly. But I listen carefully and about halfway down the hall he slams his fist into the wall, probably leaving a nice, big hole. Good. I have poured just enough on him to make him mad and keep him going. Even though it was at great personal cost.

I flop back upon my bed and bury my face in my pillow. Soon, I have to flip it around because one side is wet. Wet? Am I … crying?! I sit up, bringing my hand to touch my face. I am crying! I almost laugh. I haven't cried since … well, I honestly don't remember. I haven't felt anything strong enough to make me cry. I think I'm hysterical.

But it hurts, a lot, and I realize again why I had pushed everyone and everything away from me. It was to save myself from this awful pain. I sniffle once or twice, and then strengthen my resolve to close myself off.

But Bruce slips into my mind, briefly, before I fall asleep. That look of betrayal on his face, his angry words. As much as his words hurt me, nothing gave me more pain than hurting him like I had. No matter how hard I had tried to keep him out, he had wiggled his way into my brain and my heart and he wasn't leaving anytime soon, and there didn't seem to be anything more I could do but tell myself this was the best way. I would be free of this soon, free to forget it. Bruce, the Bruce that I have grown so attached to, he will most likely disappear in the League of Shadows once I leave. That hurts a lot too, but I remember freedom, that wonderful elusive idea, and I know that will be my salve to these self-inflicted wounds.


	5. Losing My Religion

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

It's been a few days since mine and Bruce's little blowout. He hasn't talked to me since. Like, not even one word. I'll give him one thing; he has excellent self-control.

I wander down the halls on my way out of the monastery now, because he is set to start practice in just a few minutes. I'm still going to watch him, even though he doesn't come to me for help anymore.

I don't know how he's patching himself up, because I've seen him take quite a few hard hits from Ducard.

Bruce is more determined than ever, though, and I can thank that to the act I pulled those couple of days ago. He takes his hits in stride, not showing his pain like he's been taught. Ducard is ecstatic. He must know that I've done something to spur Bruce on like this.

I have almost escaped the building without noticing my horrid surroundings. But a man cries out to me.

"Angel! Please!" he calls, his hands white-knuckling the bars of the cage he is held in.

I stop in my tracks, shocked that he is talking to me. But then again, I get angel a lot.

"Please, Angel, help me," he pleads. I shake my head fervently and try to walk past him, but it's like walking past a man sitting homeless on the streets. I cannot resist another glance at him.

Tears have welled in his eyes, and I can't tell if they're because he's scared or glad to see me. Instantly, it's as if I am bonded to the man and I cannot ignore him more than I can ignore the need for food. I turn swiftly and stalk to his small prison.

"Thank you, Angel. I knew you would save me," the man laughs, insane with hope. I risk a peek around me. Just as I thought, everyone is watching.

Before I can respond, Ducard walks up behind me, "She is no angel. She is one of us."

As I watch the man's world crumble once more behind his hopeless eyes, I stew over Ducard's words. I am _not_ like him. Ducard puts a hand on my shoulder, leading me away from the convict.

Yes, I know he's a convict. I know he has done some "unspeakable crime against humanity that cannot be excused", that was probably in self-defense or something. That was mine's "crime". I also know that he will be Bruce's last test. I know that Bruce will have to kill him, to prove his quest for true justice. I know, because I killed a man just like him.

"And, whatever you have done Bree, has worked wonders on Mr. Wayne's willpower," Ducard gushes over his next prodigy. I tune him out as we walk together to where Bruce is stretching and occasionally parrying with a bo staff against an invisible opponent in between stretches.

The wind forces itself into my lungs, and I let it fill me with its promises of my coming freedom. Soon, I will be soaring away over these mountaintops, racing with this very wind.

Bruce nods solemnly to Ducard, but fails to notice me at all. They are in front of the monastery building now, warming up. I stray to the edge of the cliff gingerly to peer down at the valley far below.

I imagine what it would feel like to jump off right now. I can feel the wind styling my boyish hair as I hurtle straight down, before pulling up sharply as the ground rises up to catch me. I won't let it though; I dance in the air, just beyond its reach.

"Breezy!" Ducard pulls me from my day-dreaming once again, and he looks annoyed.

"What?" I snap back at him. Both of us look shocked when I do.

"You should get out of the way. We're about to start," Ducard says, anger evident in his voice. He's used to my sheep-like attitude. He wasn't expecting some fire.

But I give it to him anyway, "Oh, really? Because I was planning on standing here while you two beat each other to a pulp two feet away." I even throw in an eye-roll. Is this … sarcasm? It feels nice.

Now Ducard looks thoroughly cowed. I'll get it later though. I move to the side, and they commence, fighting with long bo staffs. This was my favorite part of the training, because I took so well to the bo.

At the first break, Ducard tells Bruce what he's doing wrong, yada yada. Bruce doesn't seem too thrilled with the bo staff. Maybe later I'll give him some pointers … or not. It's hard now, not to think of Bruce as a friend. Our bond was strengthened because of the dire situation that held us both in our places, and now it refuses to disappear.

He seemed so pissed that I was using him to escape. You'd think the man would've learned some perspective towards other people. But he also doesn't know what it's like to spend ten years in hell.

The second time they go out, Bruce does better. A small stab of pride takes a shot at my heart before I can suppress it. How silly.

I walk back up to the monastery so that I can sit on the steps and not on the cold snow. Bruce gets a shot off on Ducard and I cheer internally. I don't care how much Bruce hates me, if he gives Ducard a bruise to think about he'll be my hero.

And Ducard must've felt it. He winces slightly and rubs his rib. Then the ever-present fire that burns in his eyes grows fiercer. From a pouch at his side, he throws some powder at Bruce's feet, where it explodes and sends up a screen of smoke. Then Ducard goes low with his bo staff, swiping Bruce's feet out from under him.

I see the peril as Ducard reaches into the pouch and I am almost halfway there when Bruce goes sliding off of the cliff.

My legs push against the steep ground, adrenaline already pumping through my blood. My eyes are trained on the spot where Bruce disappeared. My face is set in determination, unthinking and life-saving determination. I rush past Ducard, and he tries to make a grab at me, trying to stop me.

"No! Let him die!" Ducard roars at me.

No, I have to save Bruce. He can't die. He can't. I won't let him. A small part of my brain, a part separate from the part that's controlling the rest of my body, makes small, insignificant observations.

Bruce didn't scream. Not once. Ducard probably could've grabbed me; he must not want Bruce to die either. My stomach lodges a complaint of hunger. Why do I care so much if Bruce dies or not? Why am I reacting this way? Hey, they're going to kill me for this.

In the moment that I throw myself off of the cliff, only one thought dominates my mind. I don't_ want_ to live in a world without Bruce Wayne. And I'll do my damndest to make sure I won't have to.

I squeeze my arms and wings tight against my body, making myself as aerodynamic as possible. Bruce is fifty feet below me, and falling fast.

My day-dream from earlier is proving itself true. The winds rips threw my hair, and my eyes would be watering if it wasn't for the extra protective membrane that covers them. Or if they were normal human eyes.

I'm gaining on Bruce, thank God. Only twenty feet until I will reach him. Only one hundred before he becomes a permanent part of this landscape.

I catch a glimpse of his face. God, he is beautiful, notes that irrelevant little person in my brain. He looks so … peaceful. Resigned, yet peaceful. And I'm the freak? The man's about to die and he looks like he's about to fall asleep.

But then Bruce sees me, hurtling towards him. Hope breaks apart his composed face, and he is reaching for me. I strive against the wind, the only thing I feel holding me back.

Five more feet. Two. One. My arms feel like they've been ripped from their sockets. Oh, it hurts. As I grasped under his shoulders, I pulled my wings sharply away from my body, halting our progress slowly and tearing them from my back. Well, that's what it feels like at least.

Bruce latches onto me with his legs around my waist and his arms around my shoulders. My trivial little brain laughs darkly at the position and how much I would like it under any other circumstance. But I ignore it.

I flap my wings ineffectively as I struggle upwards. It's so hard to carry him and I don't know if my wings are up to the challenge. I'm gasping now, probably sounds more like hyperventilation to Bruce but that's me for you, and I'm striving for a purchase in the wind that buffets around us. Just one little breeze in the right direction and we'll be able make it.

It comes, and I seize it, twisting my wings so that they will catch the current. We soar out away from the mountainside and then double back. I land ever so gracefully on the ground, probably crushing poor Bruce underneath me. But he's alive, and that's all that matters. I roll off of him and collapse in the powdery snow that broke my landing, still gasping for air.

Ducard is walking towards us, taking his sweet time. Ninjas poured out of the monastery when Ducard started yelling, and now they watch as Ducard surely comes to seal my fate.

But it was worth it.


	6. Free at Last

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

I go from face down in the snow to on my feet, crouching defensively, in less than second. There is still more adrenaline in my veins than blood. Bruce is slowly picking himself up from the ground as Ducard stops, five feet away.

A guttural snarl escapes my lips. I am ready for whatever Ducard throws my way. I inch behind Bruce, so that my back is to the cliff. I know there must be all sorts of firearm trained on my head right now, but if I get the chance, I'm running for it.

Ducard holds his hand up, palm to me, and I almost bolt right then and there.

"It's okay, Breezy," he calls soothingly to me. I continue to glare at him as he finishes with this brilliant lie, "We're not going to hurt you."

Bruce has risen to his feet, and he takes my arm, trying to lead me to Ducard. What?! Is he trying to get me killed?!

I shake him off violently, my eyes still boring holes into Ducard's.

"Breezy," Bruce says calmly, "Go."

Why is he taking Ducard's side? Does he really hold that much against me? I just saved his life for Christ's sake!! My next snarl is for him. Instincts are taking over, and the whole scene is tinted red in my very nervous eyes.

I think I may have shocked Bruce by snarling at him, but I am too far past sanity to really notice. I'm all strategy now, my two choices escape or fighting my way out, both of which have a molecularly small chance of working.

The black sea of ninjas that had flooded the landscape disappears, sensing the excitement to be over. I don't notice.

"I'm not going to kill you," Ducard tries again.

"Now," I mutter, the first intelligible thing to come out of my mouth.

Ducard sighs, and then turns back to the monastery, but not before baiting me one last time, "If you run, you know you'll be found and killed. If you come inside, I can offer you redemption."

Bruce won't leave my side until I make a move towards the low, menacing building. I don't yet know if this is in my best interest, in fact it's incredibly brainless of me, but at least on the way out I'll take a few of them to hell with me.

Ra's al Ghul is waiting patiently for us, Ducard at his side.

"She has broken the rules, Ducard," Ra's says the instant we close the doors.

"Yes," Ducard cedes, "But she has given us ten years of full commitment."

Commitment? That's his argument? My seniority here? Ha.

Ra's nods, as if he's actually considering it, but then he says, "The secret cannot be revealed. Once you are in, you're in for life."

"I don't think we have to worry about Ms. Breezy revealing us to anyone. She is secluded, you know that," Ducard says. He must've planned this one out.

I have this disease. It's called verbal diarrhea, "I made an intentional infraction of the law and you're not going to kill me? Are you going soft in the head?" … what? My jaw is hanging open, just like everyone else's in the room.

"Well, if you _want _to die …" Ducard trails off, looking more than confused at my outburst.

I don't trust my mouth enough to open it again. I instead shake my head belligerently.

"I didn't think so," Ducard sighs. Maybe I did that just to make his life hard. "We were going to let her free anyway, sir. Why would we change our plans now?" I stop listening now. Ducard is foolish for trying to save me.

I am more aware of Bruce at my side than I normally would be. He is slightly in front of me actually. I think it's because he's … I search my mind for the right word. Protective? That wouldn't make much sense. But then, maybe, he doesn't hate me as much as I think he does. Maybe we are still friends.

My rambling thoughts are pulled to a swift close as Ra's al Ghul stands from his stupid throne and delivers my sentence.

"You may leave unharmed. But you are to have no more contact with the League of Shadows," he says gravely.

For the second time in one minute, my jaw hangs slack, but then I compose myself and dare to say something, "I can deal with that." Yeah, nice time for sarcasm, Breezy.

I flee quickly to my room and throw my few belongings into my bag. Bruce is right on my heels. As soon as I finish packing, I turn to him, intent on telling him everything I couldn't previously.

"Breezy, I," he begins to thank me, but I stop him.

"No, listen, Bruce. They're going to come to escort me out of here soon," then stop wasting your valuable time, idiot, "I have to tell you something."

I don't wait for his response. Oh, I could've planned this so much better, "Get out of here, Bruce. While you still can." Melodramatic, I know, but I plunge forward, "Promise me something."

"Anything," Bruce says, his eyebrows knitted confusedly in the middle of his forehead.

"Don't lose yourself, Bruce. Don't let them get to you. Always remember who you are, and stay true to your principles. It's all you can hang onto here. Don't let them destroy you, like they did me. Please. Your light is something far too valuable to be lost in the darkness of the League of Shadows." I spit the last few words, "I wish I could've warned you sooner, but that would've cost me my freedom. I'm sorry."

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for," Bruce tells me. I half-believe him but I know myself better.

"Just, please. Don't be afraid to leave," I plead, even though nothing is on the line yet.

Bruce nods solemnly, taking my rushed yet genuine words to heart. A knock raps hard against my door.

This has been a strange day. I have not thought one thing that I've done through completely, but it seems to be suiting me. Strange times call for strange actions, or something along those lines. So I close my eyes, grab Bruce's collar, and pull his face to mine. The kiss is quick and stiff, barely even sensual. I've kissed men before, well, a few at least, but none were this … impulsive.

When I pull away, a second later, Bruce's face is stunned. For once, I've broken that indestructible composure of his. Ten points for me, I think dryly. But he doesn't seem upset so I count it as a success. Neither of us seems to know why I did that though. He very well might have a clearer idea than me.

The knock comes again, more urgently. Has it really only been five seconds?

"If you're ever in Gotham," Bruce says, regaining that poise, and he smiles faintly. He must be as taken aback as me.

"Of course," I say.

"Be safe," he calls as I am lead away down the hall. I laugh at him, the sound resonating in the halls. Bruce fails to see the dark humor behind his words, because he frowns contemplatively. He's probably going to brooding about this for months to come. The most I can hope for is that he'll be around for the next few months to brood.

As soon as the wind hits my face, I'm gone. The mountains pass in a blur beneath me, and I don't look back once. Of course, I have no idea where I'm going because I'm just so glad to be gone.

I fly until the night is solid around me; the stars and moon have already set. With each pump of my wings, my shoulder blades and stomach scream at me, both vying for the top spot on my list of annoyances.

The sky has never looked so good and the wind has never tasted so delicious. Freedom sharpens my senses and emotions, until I start to cry with the joy of it. The tears get caught in my second eye membrane though, and they blind me. I start to laugh now, because it's kind of absurd and I'm just so damn happy.

The mountains have given way to multi-treed forests. The air is no warmer up here, but that is only because I'm more than 30,000 feet in the air. Once I descend it will probably be muggy and humid. Great.

I'm afraid to stop now. I fear that if I do I will wake up in my small, dreary, claustrophobic room to face another fruitless day, another typo in the book of my life. Ha, if that's how things were, you wouldn't even be able to read that book.

Finally, I collapse in a large oak tree. The branch that I know claim as my own is wide enough to support me comfortably. I have no clue as to what country I'm in.

Before I lapse into sleep, my depraved mind decides that first thing when I wake up, I will find the nearest tiny civilization, terrify them into giving me food and directions, and find my way back to America. That would probably work. I went to Africa once and some tribe thought I was a god in human flesh. They fed me for months. They tried to eat me afterwards, but that's beside the point.

My stomach growls an unhappy reminder and I pat it tiredly. I haven't eaten since … um, must've been lunch before Bruce's training session. That was almost sixteen hours ago. Wow, my stomach has the right to be angry with me. For someone who eats twice as much as the average human, six meals a day, sixteen hours is close to the brink of starvation.

But fatigue outweighs hunger, and I pass out promptly on my tree branch, wondering idly what will happen to Bruce without me there to take care of him.


	7. Blowin' in the Wind

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

I have resigned myself to commercial travel. I am taking a ship back to America. I think it's going to San Francisco area. I don't honestly know and it doesn't matter much.

The ocean is big, too big for me to fly across in one shot, and I never had much luck with deserted islands popping up just when I need them. Maybe a little more than halfway is when I'll take off and finish the journey on my own. I have to sneak onto the ship though because I don't have a penny to my name.

It's relatively easy to get into places when you have to ability to fly. I steal over the side and into an empty room, and pray that it continues to be so. Dinnertime comes. I had eaten right after waking up in southern China. I had to steal it, of course, because I had dismissed my ridiculous plan from the night before. I don my long, bulky coat and navigate my way to the kitchens.

I am almost there when the seasickness hits. Ship was a bad idea. I spend the next few days in the janitor's closet that was the closest thing to me when I started vomiting. When I re-emerge, I find out from a particularly helpful kitchen staff that we are only two days out of San Francisco. He supplies me with all the food I can eat, and I thank him gratefully. I like nice people.

The day before we are set to arrive, I climb to the top deck in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, one of the crewmen in the navigation room spots me and yells at me. I hide my face and jump off of the rail of the ship and the man screams.

But his screeches are soon quieted as I rise above the boat, soaring away on a wind current. This feels amazing. I stay close to the water, because it's really rather warm. I twist and turn gleefully. After a few more minutes of frolicking above the waves, I get higher and start picking up speed. I am flying over the land before day breaks.

As the sun peeks over the lip of the earth, I land right outside of a small town. A car pulls up behind me and a couple offers me a ride. I decline with few words. No way in hell am I getting into one of those metallic death beasts.

An hour later I arrive at the town, and I see the couple just leaving. They have stopped at a bank to get some money. I watch carefully for the pin number, because a part of me really knows how to be a criminal. They pull away in their snarling ticket to hell and luck is with me for once.

The next car in line pulls out the forgotten debit card and gives it to the banker. Perfect. I run into the bank, out of breath, and tell the sole banker that works there that I forgot my debit card in the machine. She gives it to me without even asking for a name. That surprises me greatly, but I barely think twice about it. After the banker leaves, I take all the money I need from the ATM machine. I feel sort of bad, but not all that much. This should get me to the Catskills, where I have a little secluded cabin and a nice stash of money.

That went easily, too easily, for me. For the whole duration of my flight to New York I am jumpy and tense. Karma has a funny way of coming around and biting me extra hard in the butt.

I get there a few days after, because I can only fly at night, and the little place has never looked so inviting. My bed is soft and comfy, and my cupboards are full. My fridge sadly isn't. I emptied it before I left. The very first thing I do is open my dresser drawers and pull out a pair of faded gray sweatpants and pull them on.

They are without a doubt my favorite article of clothing. They are so worn that the inside fuzz has turned almost to steel. But they are well-loved.

I am happy to see that after ten years my electricity is still in place, because I am stealing it from the closest town and I was sure someone would've noticed already. I have a few friends in some close towns, including my electricity supply, but I don't go to visit them. I'm not sure how long I'll be staying.

The next month passes in a blissful haze. I fly a lot, just because I can. Freedom has truly never tasted so good. It feels kind of like having my own personal storm cloud following me around for ten years, zapping me occasionally, and then walking out into a summer afternoon and watching it dissipate in the bright sun.

Bruce is on my mind quite a lot. I can't help but wonder what happened to him. He has to be done with his training by now; he almost was when I left. It's like a plague, this curiosity, and I can only think of one cure.

I vary the towns that I get my food supply from. One day, a headline catches my eye. It's in a newspaper called _The World Weekly News_. The name means nothing to me; it could be _The_ _New York Times_ for all I know.

_**Man-Bat Terrorizes Gotham City!**  
Police are Clueless._

Man-Bat? Gotham? I read the rest of the article. It says that this man-bat has taken to crime fighting, like some sort of masked vigilante. There are excerpts from interviews with people who saw the thing.

My mind jumps to Bruce, but it seems stupid. Than again, that was the reason Ducard was so interested in Bruce. He believed that Bruce could help them take down Gotham from the inside, burn it to the ground.

I have never personally been to the city, but I've heard the stories of its cruelty and crime. It doesn't sound like a nice place.

I skim through the rest of the paper, and most of the rest of it has something to do with aliens. I almost decide the thing is a piece of crap, but then I see a fuzzy picture on the second to last page with the headline:

_**Angels Among Us?**_

I stare hard at the picture and then read the article. It states that this picture was taken in Utah. I was in Utah. I squint at the picture again. The story recommends that any other pictures or information of the angel should be sent in immediately. I feel kind of famous actually. Not really angry at my security lapse, because I look at the Letters to the Editor, and there are four of them that say they are the angel, and another two that claim to know it's place of living. One was Atlantis, the other was heaven. Nice.

I put the newspaper onto the register. The clerk gives me a disgusted look and I shrug at her. She rolls her eyes and pops her chewing gum. Teenagers, I sigh. But I want to show Bruce my little claim to fame, so I waste the ninety cents it costs.

I have officially made up my mind to go to Gotham and pay Bruce a visit, now that I have convinced myself that he's home.

In truth, I'm wary of my upcoming visit. I don't want to go and fully realize that Bruce is a member of the League of Shadows. It's kind of better not knowing and being able to pretend that he never went there and that he's living a happy, full life as the billionaire that he is.

On my way out of the grocery store, I catch one more headline, and it seals my fate. Bruce's picture is on the front, and he looks quite drunk. I frown at it.

_**Billionaire Playboy Bruce Wayne Back in Gotham.**  
The Ladies are Already Lining Up._

This from a bland tabloid. It ponders over where Bruce has been for the last seven years. Seven years? I didn't know that. I don't give the tabloid any more of my regard, because I can tell that one's full of crap immediately. Bruce doesn't drink. And playboy doesn't exactly fit his persona.

I set out for Gotham the next morning. I consult a map and figure it will take me only a day to get there.

Sure enough, the following afternoon I am entering the city limits. Downtown Gotham looms in the distance, dark and menacing. I almost turn back right there, because I hate cities and this one doesn't look very pleasant. But my burning curiosity over Bruce's fate prompts me on.

**Author's note - Ugh, that was short. Sorry :)**


	8. Hello Goodbye

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe. Or the names of my chapters which are various classic rock songs. Or the phrase "Are you mental?". That belongs to the wonderful creators of Wayne's World.  
**

My outstanding ability to plan has yet again shone through.

It is night, and I am alone in Gotham, on the streets, with barely any money. Brilliant.

I'm getting looks from the hobos around their barrels, and three drunkards have already asked me how much a night would cost. After the third time I finally grasped that they thought I was a prostitute. I have a knee-length, black jacket on, and they think I'm a whore? Cities, I guess they do that to you.

I feel very unsafe. My muscles feel lacking, because I've barely used them in a month. They are squishy and soft and probably wouldn't do much to a grown man, especially a drunk one. Those ones always get up for a second round.

The other half of my mind is strangely pumped. It believes that I could do anything, take anyone. Cities.

I could go to Bruce's home, if I knew where that was. This is a large city, I'm coming to realize, and finding one house in this many seems absurd. I could ask for directions. That feels like a good idea, at least in my gut, so I stalk to the nearest gas station and let myself in, bells chiming by my head.

The man behind the counter looks up and then says dismissively, "Sorry, no one here wants any."

I shake my head and scoff slightly but pursue my purpose, "Where does Bruce Wayne live?"

"Oh, you're going to Wayne Manor?" the man looks sort of interested now, and he studies me more, "You'd think, with the money that man's got, he could get someone prettier. But then why he would need …"

The man stops abruptly, mostly because I have elbowed through the thick glass and grabbed him by the neck. So much for me previous feeling of weakness. I just elbowed through "bullet-proof" glass. I hit it at the weakest spot, but still.

"Just tell me where the hell Bruce Wayne lives," I snarl, in no mood for human head games. I have no place to sleep, my last coins have been spent, and I'm hungry.

"Um, 14 miles east of here, past the city limits," he gulps.

I nod and take some cash from the open register and leave promptly. As soon as I'm out of sight, I pull the jacket off my shoulders and leap into the air, wings catching the slightest breeze and lifting me far over the city. I seem to be following a highway to this Wayne Manor. I continue to, letting that be my only marker. It's a lot easier than following my instincts.

I start passing mansions, but only a few seem to be up and running, most just look old and worn down. Finally, I land in front of a home I presume o be Wayne Manor because of the words written in the ironwork of the massive gates. My jaw drops as I look upon the palace. There is a fountain in the middle of what, for lack of a better word, is the driveway. The only thing it's missing is a red carpet.

There are turrets and a large set of steps leading up to the front door. And the whole place is surrounded by a wall that could give the Great Wall of China a run for its money.

I'm not sure how to go about getting Bruce's attention. Usually I would just jump the wall, but, in truth, I'm kind of scared of getting shot or tasered by some invisible security guard or fence. So I opt for the little speaker on the guard house thing. It has a button on it and I push it half-heartedly. I feel really out of place and rude for not at least calling first.

I laugh out loud at the thought. This place must be bringing out that higher society blood that's in us all.

It's a full minute before someone answers on the speaker.

"Hello?" a voice crackles over the intercom.

I push the button and hold it down, "Um, hi. I'm here to see, um, Bruce."

"Don't hold the button down, dearie," the voice says kindly.

"Oh, sorry," I reply quickly, "Um, I'm here to see … Mr. Wayne."

"Oh," the voice says shortly, "And for what?"

"I'm, uh, an old friend," I grimace at the words. This little speaker voice is making me feel incredibly stupid.

"And where do you know Master Wayne from?" the speaker man asks.

"Um," I hesitate. Yeah, I know him from that time he spent in a clandestine league of assassins becoming a master of martial arts. Um, "A while ago?"

"Name?" the speaker asks briefly. I have the sense that whoever is on the other side wants to be done with this quickly and get back to his previous, and probably more interesting, work.

"Breezy," I say quickly.

"Ah," the speaker seems to understand now. Good! Bruce has probably talked about me! I don't know if I'm more excited because that means they'll let me in, or just because Bruce has talked about me. "Listen, miss, I'm afraid that Master Wayne doesn't take to that kind of thing, no matter what the tabloids say."

"What kind of thing?" I wonder aloud.

"Well, you know, _ladies of ill repute_," the voice hints gently.

"If you're calling me a damn whore," I begin, anger rising in my voice.

"No, no, not at all," the voice says quickly. A back round noise captures my attention and then a few moments later Bruce's familiar voice comes out of the speaker.

"Breezy?" he asks tentatively.

"Yes?! Yes! Bruce?" I reply eagerly.

"Come on in," there is a little laugh to Bruce's voice, and it makes me smile. Suddenly, all of the anxieties that I have spent that past few days repressing are surging through my mind as one, like a tidal waves of nervous energy. Do I want to do this? Make myself see that Bruce has fully become a member of the League of Shadows before giving up hope for him? I don't wait for the gates to open. Tasers and BB guns be damned, I hop over the wall and rush up the stairs, my face only three feet from their surface. I come to a brief halt at the door that is thrown open just as I arrive.

"Breezy?" Bruce's face peers out at me. He looks … good. Well, he always looks good, but I mean healthy. Bright, almost. Confusion ripples through his eyes, like he can't fathom just what I'm doing standing breathlessly at his doorstep. I grin at him, and the confusion triples.

"Who does it look like?" I laugh happily. Bruce pulls me into a big hug that sucks my breath away. Before the joy of reunion fully settles in me, I remind myself what I'm here for.

"Bruce …" I begin, but I'm not sure how to finish. What can I say? Bruce, you didn't by chance throw your life away, did you?

"Come in," Bruce interrupts, pulling me by the arm into the castle that is his home. I gape at the tapestry-covered walls and various, expensive-looking vases.

An older man steps out of a room and walks stiffly to us. I can almost tell by that walk that the man is a butler.

"Alfred?" I ask. Bruce had told me all about this man who raised him like a son.

"Yes," Alfred smiles at me, but there is apprehension in his eyes. "Sorry about that little case of mistaken identity when you were outside," he says genially.

"Hey, don't worry about it," I sigh, "It wasn't the first time I got a comment like that tonight."

"Other people thought you were a prostitute?" Bruce asks, his eyes sparkling. The twinkle fills me with an unexplainable joy, and it takes me a few seconds to respond.

"Um, yeah, apparently long, black jackets are in," I shrug.

"Alfred, make our guest up a nice room, and plenty of food for later," Bruce says to the butler.

"I'm on it, sir," Alfred nods and bustles away. There must be something in the water here that helps these Wayne Manor men keep their composure. Alfred didn't comment or even stare at my snowy white and incredibly noticeable wings.

"You know me well," I grin and my stomach growls its happy remark as well. A tiny, half-smile pulls up one corner of Bruce's lips.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asks, leading me to a couch.

"Um, I just wanted to check on you," I admit swiftly.

Bruce understands immediately and he says, "The League of Shadows … didn't suit me."

My heart leaps into my mouth, and I must force it back down so I can speak, "You didn't go through with it?"

"As much as you motivated me, no," Bruce says. This has to be a joke, so I giggle. Bruce gives me a funny look, like he would never expect that sound to come out of me. I remember then that the Breezy that Bruce knew was a different one sitting across from him on this extremely uncomfortable couch. I had never laughed, or really smiled, in front of Bruce.

"Good," I say. This is better than anything I could've hoped for. I'm with Bruce, and he's not dead or an assassin. Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too? A thought nudges at my conscience, trying to get my attention, "So, how did you get out?"

"I burned down the monastery," Bruce says bashfully.

"Nice! Ducard?"

"He's alive. I made sure to save him," Bruce says seriously.

"Why?" I laugh again.

Bruce doesn't look very happy with that, and he glares at me.

"What?" I haven't picked up on his mood quite yet.

"Because he was a friend."

"A friend? Are we talking about _Henri _Ducard here?" I'm still chuckling at the thought of Bruce burning down a centuries-old monastery full of ninjas.

"Yes," Bruce says tersely. Killjoy, I think. It seems to be a sore spot, and I don't press the issue.

"What about the Ra's man?" I ask offhandedly.

"Who?" Bruce asks, confused by my nickname.

"Ra's? Ra's al Ghul," I correct myself.

Bruce hesitates, but then says, "Dead."

"Good. Wonderful job," I grin. The headquarters of the League of Shadows has been destroyed. This is better than I ever could've dreamed.

Bruce doesn't seem as happy as me. He's brooding about something but my good mood makes me too lofty to do anything about it. Just then, Alfred hurries in.

"You're needed, Master Wayne," he says shortly, hinting at something I can't comprehend. Bruce looks up at him and nods then bids me goodbye. I watch them go with curiosity. Where would Bruce be needed at this time of night?

"Batman?" I say my conviction out loud. I leap from the couch and run after Bruce and Alfred.

They're in a study, hovering over a piano.

"You're Batman?" I say incredulously. Bruce stares at me and then looks at Alfred for help.

"Well,_ technically_," Alfred starts.

I interrupt him though, "Are you shitting me?"

"No," Bruce replies defensively, "Let me explain."

"I've heard the stories, Bruce," I butt in, "Are you mental?"

"Master Bruce, it's urgent," Alfred says softly.

Bruce is offended now, and he says, "I thought you, of all people, would understand. I guess I should've known better." Ouch. He didn't even say it scathingly or anything. Just softly. Disappointed. That is _so_ much worse.

"What?!" I yell at him as a bookshelf opens and Bruce steps into an elevator. Alfred doesn't follow him, but stays and tries to console me.

"He's just in a rush, miss," Alfred says.

"Yeah right," I mutter. Alfred is looking at me like I'm going to cry, which I'm not, but he hands me a hanky.

"Your room's ready," Alfred sighs when I don't accept his offering, "And so is your dinner."

"Forget it. I'm leaving," I growl. He has no right to talk to me like that! Yeah, I would totally understand dressing up in a bat-like suit to one-handedly take on the criminal underworld at great personal risk just to save a lousy city that just happens to be home.

Oh.

I do understand, sort of. But I'm outside the door already, with no intention of going back tonight. I have too much pride for that. I slam the door behind me, and survey the large yard.

A greenhouse attracts my attention, and I sneak over and stealthily let myself in.


	9. I'll Be Standing By

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

Pounding fills my head. It takes me a few moments to shake the comfortable blanket of sleep off and realize that the noise is actually outside my mind; someone is pounding ferociously on the greenhouse door, which I had locked before passing out.

I fly, literally, to the door, and wait for some indication of the identity of the pounder.

"It's Alfred, miss, let me in, please," the butler demands.

I snap open the deadbolt quickly and throw the door wide, revealing Alfred still dressed in his butlering clothes, even though it is well into the night.

"Master Wayne insists that you come in for the night," Alfred says invitingly as he holds his arm out for my hand.

"No thanks," I reply shortly.

"Please?" Alfred tries. I just shake my head at him and start to close the door. Alfred has surprisingly quick feet though, as I find out when the door will close no further, "Ii have a nice, temper-pedic mattress set up for you, with feather-down pillows and a heated blanket. It's king-sized," he baits. I snatch the worm and smile faintly at him, but mainly because I know there is no winning against this man. Bruce has told me a lot about him.

"You had me at heated blanket," I say weakly. Alfred grins a wide, toothy smile and holds his arm out for me once more. I take it and let him lead me into the house, or castle as I call it in the safe confines of my own mind.

My room is humongous. It's probably five times the size of my closet back in the mountains. It's colored with deep, earthy colors, like mahogany and chestnut. I collapse on the bed and am out promptly.

In the morning, the smell of cooking eggs and sizzling bacon seeps through the walls. They put me next to the kitchen, gee, thanks Bruce. Probably because he knew that I'd sleep all day in that wonderful, warm cocoon of a bed if I didn't smell that food.

There is a large vanity mirror on the back of the door that I cannot, no matter how hard my efforts, avoid looking into. My short, dirty blonde hair is spiked on one side, completely flat on the other, all in all very attractive. My face is dirt-streaked, and my clothes rumpled. I consider a shower before breakfast, but my stomach starts to laugh scornfully at me by way of gurgling.

The kitchen is a big, open affair with numerous cabinets, two fridges, and an extra-long stove that is currently hosting a dozen eggs and probably a full pig's worth of bacon. It's any mutant bird-girl's dream.

Bruce isn't there, but I don't care. All my eyes see are those eggs. If I were a cartoon, which I do sometimes wish, because that would make life so much funner, my eyes would be pulsating hearts. Drool pools at the sides of my mouth.

Alfred looks up and chuckles at me, "Good morning, miss. Care for some eggs?"

In response, I dramatically lick my lips and sit at the high counter.

"You might want to wake Master Wayne before you dig in. He'll be very unhappy if he misses his breakfast. Especially with the likes of you at the table."

A giggle escapes my lips. Alfred has a sweet talent for making me laugh. He tells me what room is Bruce's, and I flounce up the steps hurriedly before giving up halfway and flying the rest. I'm too hungry to walk.

I burst through Bruce's door and immediately set about trying to figure out the curtains. I don't have to say a word, because the racket I make sends Bruce from blissful sleep to complete awareness in two seconds. I finally master the blinds, pulling them from their hold forcefully and throwing them to the ground in a manner that suggests that I would very much like to burn them if I had the chance.

"Good morning to you too," Bruce mutters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "You'll have to pay for those, you know."

"They're not broken," I protest, surveying the down-trodden lump of fabric at my feet, "And it's not my fault, anyway. They started it." But then my stomach remembers our mission, and I yank Bruce from his sitting position. "Hurry up! Breakfast is waiting!"

"Give me a few moments," Bruce huffs, grabbing his silky, striped robe.

"No, no moments," I snatch the robe from his hands and race downstairs. Bruce follows irately. He's not much of a morning person, but he came between me and breakfast, and no sane man wants to be there. Of course, the jury's still out on whether Bruce is sane or not.

Alfred hurries back into the kitchen when he sees me reach the gigantic table first and skillfully immigrate the whole dozen-egg omelet to my plate, and then my mouth, chunk by chunk. Bruce watches on in amazement as I shovel away at the food, more inhaling then tasting.

"'S a good omelet," I say between mouthfuls.

"You weren't kidding when you said you ate a lot, were you?" Bruce comments as his smaller omelet is brought out a minute later. I don't grace him with an answer. We start out sitting at opposite ends of the long table, but Bruce moves to my side when he sees that I will not go to his.

After breakfast, we settle back contentedly in our stiff-back chairs.

"I like that look on you, I really do," Bruce jokes, reaching out and ruffling my hair. It's probably an improvement.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes, "So, how was risking your life combating criminals on the streets until the wee hours of the night?"

Bruce laughs at the table penitently, his eyes not meeting mine, "Good, I guess. How was the greenhouse?"

"Aromatic," I answer after the necessary pause I need to gather a more brilliant reply than 'whatever'.

"I'm glad you stayed, Breezy," Bruce says, going all serious on me. These are the worst times for my verbal diarrhea, because my emotions get all tangled and overwhelmed and the brain cells that usually control my communication skills have to go and reinforce the ones holding back whatever emotion is trying to break loose.

"Um, yeah," I say, and it is my turn to scrutinize the table. After a short pause, I say, "Listen, if this is what you want to do with your life, fine. I understand. You're just … a guy in a cape with bats in his belfry. Why bats, by the way?" I sidetrack.

"Because that is what I fear. Or feared rather."

"Bats?" I ask incredulously, "What, did you watch one of those vampire bat flicks when you were younger that scarred you for life?"

"No," Bruce chuckles again, "I … fell down a well this one time."

I listen to his story patiently, my real question poking at my brain the whole time.

"Oh," I say when Bruce stops. I guess that makes more sense now. Then I get to my more important question, "Anyway, what I was getting at before was, I just want to know why."

"Why?" Bruce gives me a look like the answer should be obvious, "Don't you know how my parents died?"

"Yeah," I say. Can that be his only excuse? "They were murdered right?"

"Yes," Bruce says curtly. I guess that is his only reason.

"Bruce, plenty of people have lost loved ones to murderers," I try to make sense of this out loud, "But they don't … do _this_. What you're doing."

"But how many of those people watched their loved ones die, right in front of their young eyes, all the while knowing it was their fault, and believing it for many years? And how many of those people almost killed that murderer, and would've if they hadn't been beat to the punch? And, tell me Breezy, just how many of those people came back to find their city in the same exact state that they left it in, if not worse, and had the training and skill necessary to end that misery so that no one else ever has to feel what they've felt?" Bruce spurts, the words flowing flawlessly from his mouth. I sort of envy him that talent.

"I guess just you," I say. The overflow of knowledge is almost too much for me, and I get the informational equivalent of a brain-freeze. I hadn't known that he had _watched_ his parents die. That puts things in an all-new perspective. Bruce nods affirmatively at my silence.

"Now do you understand?"

"Yeah," I flash a sudden grin, "I understand that you have an over-developed sense of justice."

"At least I have a sense of justice," Bruce replies quickly, flashing a similar grin, "I heard about that convenience store break-in of yours."

Bruce's quick smile leaves me virtually breathless. I'm not used to seeing it, so when it comes I have to take a few moments and replay it back in my mind to enjoy it more, but then I shrug and say "I had to."

"Ah, you _had_ to make the man shit his pants by breaking through his protective glass window that he believed unbreakable just because you knew how to," Bruce mocks.

"He shit his pants?" I say gleefully. I didn't know that.

Bruce nods, "I saw the security tape. Speaking of, you should be more careful if you plan on breaking into anymore convenience stores. They caught your face quite clearly."

Security, or my lack of, reminds me of my claim to fame. I rush to my room without a word, and Bruce follows.

"Check this out," I thrust the grimy newspaper in Bruce's hands. He reads the headline and scoffs.

"_World Weekly News_?" he questions my news source.

"Yeah, flip to page 15," I prod him in the belly. He doubles up slightly because said belly is very full.

He mouths the words, and then shakes his head sadly, "You're proud of this?"

"Yeah! Isn't it exciting! I'm famous!"

"Take it from someone who knows, it's not that fabulous," Bruce says. He isn't enjoying my fame as much as I am, and I don't know why.

"Aw, come on, Bruce, lighten up," I try to joke.

"I'm a creature of the night. I'm not even supposed to know what light is," Bruce jokes back. I sigh, relieved. I like Bruce so much more when he's not all gloomy.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice echoes down the hallway, "Mr. Lucius Fox is on the telly for you."

"I have to take that," Bruce says. I tag along, because I have nothing better to do.

"Hello, Lucius. Yes, it worked wonderfully. Just the right amount of pull for … spelunking. Yes, yes, thank you, again. Alright," Bruce pauses and looks at me for a long moment, "Actually, Lucius, I have someone here I would really like you to meet." I swiftly kick his shin, and he grimaces at me, but manages to keep the pain I know he's feeling out of his voice when he says, "If you would be so kind. Okay, three o' clock. See you then."

When Bruce hangs up the phone, I make sure that the face he turns back to is not a pleasant one. I try my hardest to cock one of my eyebrows up while glaring, but alas, I am no Clark Gable.

"Lucius knew most of the men that … worked on you. I thought he would enjoy seeing the product."

"Excuse me, sir, but did you say worked on her?" Alfred butts in.

"Yes, Alfred. You see, our friend Breezy here was a result of the Avian Experiment," Bruce turns his full body around to see Alfred's reaction, which is worth it. He drops the pan he was washing onto the floor, splattering water everywhere, including a humorous spot on his pants.

"You don't say," Alfred breathes, disregarding the mess, "Yes, I think that Lucius will find her most interesting."

"Well that's all very well," I begin a rant, but Bruce stops me mid-sentence, clapping a hand over my mouth.

"There's no room for argument," he warns. My glare intensifies.

"Ah now, don't do that," Alfred says to me, removing Bruce's hand and patting my head affectionately, "It'll put wrinkles in your pretty little brow."

"Fine," I growl, and then pull away from them, my objective a hot shower.

A half-hour and some very bad singing later, I finish dressing in clothes from God-knows-where that fit nicely after I tore two big holes in the back and set out on a quest for Bruce. I find him in his room, talking to Alfred.

"Have you seen her lately?" Bruce asks.

"Not in quite a while," Alfred responds, "She was most devastated when you left. I'm actually surprised she hasn't been here to see you for herself." So there is a girl. Of course. I mentally hit my head against the wall for being so stupid and fantasizing about something I'll never have.

"Hey," I announce my presence, rapping lightly on the door frame and swinging the door open. Bruce is looking out of a high window, and he doesn't seem at all ashamed to see me. He must not have guessed that I was eaves-dropping.

"I thought you'd like a tour of the grounds before Lucius gets here," Bruce offers. I decline gently, saying that I need time to prepare myself for meeting someone new. Bruce swallows the lie whole. I go back to my room and spend the next few hours contemplating why I feel so horrible about Bruce having a girl.

"Lucius is here," Alfred comes to get me and ushers me to the large parlor.

"You won't believe me if I told you, Lucius. This is something you have to see with your own eyes. But you will be blown away, without a doubt," Bruce is prepping this Fox man for me. I smile smugly on the inside when I hear the ridiculous pride in Bruce's voice.

"You certainly have intrigued me, Mr. Wayne," an unfamiliar voice says. It is deep and husky. Bruce turns around and sees Alfred in the entrance and gets up to bring me in.

"Lucius, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to Ms. Breezy," Bruce takes my arm and leads me to the man. His skin is dark and speckled with age and his eyes are old. Those dark eyes take on a new light when they take in my wings, much like Bruce's did when we first met. They seem to be analyzing me, deciding if I'm a trick of the mind or really there.

"Hi," I say lamely.

"Hello," Lucius says, curiosity raging from every fiber of his being, as he takes my hands and raises it to his lips. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I feel Bruce vibrate with a laugh next to me.

"You'll never guess," Bruce challenges, looking confident that Lucius will not.

"The Avian Experiment?" Lucius asks, but he already knows the answer, I can see that in his eyes.

Bruce scoffs, but I can tell that he knew that Lucius would know, "I figured I wouldn't catch you off-guard. Amazing, isn't she?" Again, that pride flushes his voice and flutters in my heart.

"Absolutely stunning," Lucius responds, "Are they functional?"

"Completely," I say airily, like having a fourteen-foot wingspan is no big deal.

"I'd love to see it," Lucius hints. I shrug and head for the door. After a flight and then an encore, Lucius peppers Bruce and me with questions essentially about how I work. I think his mind is overloaded, because he keeps switching the question.

Finally, he says, "You know, if you don't mind of course, why don't I just run some tests on you? That will answer my questions more effectively." I grimace and Bruce squeezes my hand, "But only if you want," Lucius adds quickly.

"Um," I look to Bruce for help getting out of this. One of my main reasons for my life of mostly-solitude is avoiding getting tested like an animal by scientists who don't care about my well-being more than they care about the rats in the sewer. Lucius probably isn't like that, but my mind has already branded him and sent him to the "Automatic Dislike" corner.

"It'll all be done in secret," Bruce says, "No one but Lucius will know."

"It will also be a great success for the field of genetics," Lucius says.

"No," I say quickly, my eyes now wide in fear. Lucius looks a little hurt, more disappointed really, but I couldn't care much less. Bruce looks slightly disappointed too, but he should know better. Lucius leaves soon after that, and I won't lie. I'm glad to see him go.

Later on, Bruce tells me that he has a date tonight and that lucky lady will be arriving any minute. I tense.

"It's only with a couple of super-models," he tells me.

"A couple?" I glower. He doesn't know why I'm getting worked up about this, and he finds some sort of humor in it.

"It's purely a show," he says, "Alfred says that Bruce Wayne must keep up his playboy persona, even if Batman is prowling the streets. I probably won't even have fun. Super-models are all the same, full of nothing but hot-air."

"Don't act too happy about it. You might strain a muscle," I growl.

"What's the matter?" Bruce asks, smiling slightly. I shake my head, nothing.

Bruce looks at the floor then. He takes a while to speak again, "Is this about … what happened when you left?"

Oh. He does remember.

"Yeah, sorry about that," I mutter, though I'm far from it, "Spur of the moment, you know?"

"Okay, if you say so," Bruce says, not believing me by a long shot.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, taking the defensive.

"That you care for me a whole lot more than you let on," Bruce says. I gasp, but that doesn't stop him, "Why else would you save me, risking your own life, and then drag your butt all the way to Gotham to check on me?"

"Because you're my friend," I defend.

"Alright, friend," Bruce agrees. Just then, the doorbell rings, and women's laughter floats from the outside. He sighs, and I half-believe that he won't enjoy himself this evening. Then he leans in and pecks me on the cheek, "Goodnight. Friend."

I flee before Bruce can see that my face has turned a red that a tomato would envy.

**Author's note – Yeah, this is a long one. Another nerdy quote in there. "Guy in a cape with bats in his belfry," was a line from some comic. Knightfall, if I remember correctly. So props to those guys for giving me one of my favorite quotes.  
**


	10. Strange Days

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

The stranger across from me is glaring straight into my eyes. Her forehead is wrinkled with disgust and malcontent. I pout at her, with her boyish, dirty blonde hair and her eyes the dull blue-grey color of blueschist. Her face morphs into the same sad, unsatisfactory look, and I feel the urge to shatter the stupid mirror with my bare fists.

I couldn't help sneaking a glance at Bruce's dates. They were tall and skinny, with long legs and exotic faces covered with an amount of cosmetics that could sink a cargo ship. Their skimpy dresses flattered them incredibly, and a pang of jealousy had shot through me. I will never be able to look like that.

Sure, I am tall, almost 5'10" and I am fit, my muscles hard as a rock now because of Bruce's wonderful home exercise machines, but I am anything but skinny or small or what today is considered pretty. My face is … plain. My nose is straight, could be smaller, and my face is round, with low cheekbones. Nothing about me sticks out, apart from my wings of course.

This self-loathing and lack of self-confidence I blame on those damn super-models. I try to focus only on Bruce's mood before he left with them, but then I can't get the picture of his fingers grazing one of their long legs out of my mind. How can any male not enjoy that? I decide that both he and I are full of bullshit. Me, because I'm acting shallow and him, because he is too.

Alfred had tried to convince me to go out for the evening, but I laughed at him. What am I supposed to do? Put on my best pair of holey jeans and baggy sweater and go bar-hopping?

So I sit around moping, waiting anxiously for Bruce to get home so that I can mope around him and make him feel bad.

"He is only doing this to protect his _other_ public image," Alfred keeps reminding me, "He can not always be Batman."

"He shouldn't be Batman in the first place!" I shoot back at Alfred, and the old man opens up to me.

"Even I don't fully understand his actions," he tells me, "His reasons I do understand, but Master Bruce's mind is a complex one, and I am sure he justifies himself even as we question him. He is a good man, like his father, and he is just trying to make his mark upon this world a good one, like his father did."

"Yeah," I mumble. I'm not going to even try to put into words for Alfred what my thoughts are regarding this, so I change the subject, "Listen, Al, I feel horrible about letting you cook and clean for me. Isn't there anything I can help with?" I'm not used to being pampered, and to be honest, it's not all it's cracked up to be. I'm bored most of the day.

"Usually," Alfred sniffs, "I would decline such a ridiculous request and deem it an insult against my care-taking. But, since you called me Al, I will most certainly put you to work." He smiles kindly at me, and I know he's joking. At last, someone who understands my need for stimulation.

I giggle at him, and it's not forced. I briefly consider staying here for the rest of my days just so that I can live with Alfred. He's wonderful; all Bruce hyped him up to be.

"What can I do?" I ask, the laugh still evident in my voice.

Alfred mulls over his list of chores for a moment, and then sends me to the kitchen, where I will be cleaning the dishes and countertops and such.

I find him in the kitchen a few minutes later with a small radio in his hands, "For your enjoyment," he says, setting it down on a counter that I must wash and flipping the switch on.

"Kitchen Patrol reporting for duty," I say, throwing a smart salute to Alfred. He grins smugly at me, and waves his arm around the room vaguely.

"Have fun," he says to me as he passes me on his way to bigger and better and more glamorous things, like cleaning out the toilet. After I finish the long but pleasantly mindless job I decide to make myself a quick salad. I grab a bowl and a head of lettuce out of one of the fridges. I chop up the head quickly and sweep the shreds into the bowl, and then fish out some cheese, carrots, peanuts, raisins, and celery.

I am about to begin cutting the carrot when a piano intro crackles out of the radio, followed by a woman's soulful voice. I crank the volume dial as far as it will go, for this is my karaoke song, and belt out the words.

"And I grew strong. And I learned how to get aloooong!" I drop the knife in exchange for the celery and my salad fixings make for excellent drumsticks, "And so you're back. From outa space. I just walked in to find ya here with that sad look upon your face." I make it through the rest of the first verse and chorus without my voice breaking, and dive into the second verse.

"And you see me, somebody new. I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you! And so you felt like droppin' in, and just expect me to be free? Now I'm savin' all my love for someone who's lovin' MEEE!" Here, I lose it and my voice cracks thunderously, but I plow ahead. In fact, I am surprised that I held out that long. I don't notice my little audience in the kitchen doorway. I make it through the next chorus with little mistakes and pause for a moment, in complete synchronization with Gloria Gaynor, "Oh, oh, oh, oh."

"Go on now GO! Walk out the door!" I throw my hand with the carrot out in front of me dramatically, bop my head, lift up on my left toes, and drop my right hip all in time with the beat, giving my all for the last chorus. My voice is hideously loud and out of tune, but this is my song, and I don't give a care. "Just turn around now, 'cause your not welcome anymore! Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and diiie?! Oh no, not I!" I bring my hand back to face, curling it into a fist and closing me eyes.

"I will survive! Oh, as long as I know howta love I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give," I re-open my eyes and lift my clenched fist in the air, my voice as far from these next money notes as physically possible, "And I'll survive! I will surviiive! IIII will surviiiiive!!" I finish out the song jamming against the countertop with my now-ragged carrot and celery, and sigh happily when it's over and the DJ comes on to tell me about Gotham downtown district traffic.

I hear rousing applause behind me, and spin around, my cheeks two big red cherries on my face. Bruce is avidly clapping and Alfred is almost doubled over with suppressed laughter.

"Hey, Breezy," Bruce chuckles, "I didn't know you were a singer!" I am petrified to the extreme and almost escape past them to my room when Bruce grabs my arm, lightning-quick.

"Wait, wait a minute," he says with laughter still strong in his voice. I feel almost close to tears with embarrassment, but I turn around to glower at him, "Come on," he pleads, "That was great."

I scoff and pull away, but Bruce's grip is strong, "Really," he says, "You've just made my whole day. That was possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen."

A small smile leaps onto my face, and my blushing deepens, "Yeah, well," I cough to hide the raw emotion behind my words, "That's my karaoke song, you know? Everyone has one."

"Yeah, I know," Bruce smiles.

"So, how were the air-head supermodels? I noticed that you came back alone," I poke at him playfully.

Melancholy enters Bruce's eyes, and my quick smile turns into a quick frown, "What happened?" I instantly feel horrible for asking, because just seconds ago I had made him happy, and now he sinking back into the pit of despair he must have previously occupied before coming back here and experiencing my singing, yeah, that's what happens. You don't hear me sing, you _experience_ it.

"Oh, uh, nothing," Bruce stutters.

"Yeah right," I cross my arms resolutely, letting Bruce know through body language that I won't move from my spot until he tells me what happened. And I know for sure that something did, because Bruce stammered and I know what it takes to make him nervous.

"I just saw an old friend there, that's all," Bruce says quietly, his visage turned miserable again.

"Who was she?" I ask. Bruce wonders about how I know that she was a she, I can tell by his glance, but I just know.

"Rachel Dawes. An old friend, like I said."

"Oh, did you guys have a falling-out or something?" I gander half-heartedly. I don't frankly want to hear about this Rachel.

"Yeah, I guess a seven year absence can do that to a friendship," Bruce sighs softly.

"Yeah," I yawn. It's been a long night.

"She … doesn't get me," Bruce continues as if he hadn't heard my blatant hint that it's my bedtime.

I give up on sleep for the moment and sit down on the nearest couch, patting the spot next to me. Bruce looks undecided, he probably has some Batman duty to fulfill, but he sits.

"When she saw me tonight, with those two girls wrapped around me and a check in my hand for the hotel, all she could see was my act. I wish she could see the real me, know that I'm still in here, and understand me like you can," Bruce empties his woes.

I am torn. On one glorious hand, Bruce appreciates me. But on the other, he would probably replace me if this Rachel was as I am, but I end up saying, "I don't _fully_ understand, Bruce."

He looks at me in shock and then says, "I don't either."

I gape at him, and then giggle. And then giggle again. And then those little giggles avalanche into full-blown belly laughter. Bruce stares disbelievingly at me, and then joins in, and that's how Alfred finds us, three minutes later, doubled over and leaning against one another, fighting for the breath to continue the cleansing laughter.

"I know, Alfred," Bruce says before Alfred can find the words, "I'm coming."

Then he turns back to me and says, "I don't know how I can ever thank you for everything you've done for me." I just shrug, the words getting stuck in my throat. Bruce smiles that quirky, small, little smile of his and then leans in, brushing his lips against my own. It wasn't like back in the monastery, which was hard and urgent and fast. This was soft and gentle and over much too quickly. I am left alone on the couch studying my hands while Bruce readies himself to reveal his true side, become his true self, the self that I realize right then, I love.

Again, emotions choke me, and tears start to flow from my eyes, and I dart to my room before Alfred can see me. How else could this visit to Bruce be explained, or the jealousy I felt earlier in the day? I have never … been in love before. I have one or two friends that I love, but in a friend way. This feels different. Better, for one, and … just different. I try to think of all the cheesy ways people had described love in the very few romantic books that I've read in my lifetime, and they always said that the feeling was like flying high in the sky.

Well, they were wrong, because I've done that, and this has nothing on it. They say that you value your significant other's life more than even your own, but I don't feel that way, because in my mind Bruce will never die, can never die. I just think about him kicking ass on the evening news and I feel safe for him. They say your whole body gets warm and fuzzy, but if they mean sweaty and confused, then I'm with them. I contemplate this all while I'm snuggling under my covers, ready for sleep.

They also say that when he kisses you, the world stops turning. But for me, it speeded up, and happened to quickly and was over too soon. I don't know what they were talking about.

I just feel confused and happy and ignorant and embarrassed and scared all at the same time. And if I had felt like this at any other time, I would've added pissed to the list, because I know it doesn't sound very fun to have all those things going on. But I'm not. And _that's_ why I think I might be in love. I sigh, these are truly strange days.

**Author's note – Thanks to the wonderful Gloria Gaynor and her song "I Will Survive"for providing some comic relief :P  
**


	11. Fool for the City

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

Curiosity mixed with boredom raging from my fingertips to my toes, I sneak into the parlor with the piano, and bang out the notes that I remember a few times before a section of a bookshelf swings open. I peer downwards into the gloom, and almost back out. A red elevator comes up to greet me. I step into it and my body starts to tremor. I don't feel safe.

The second the elevator touches ground I dart out of it, breathing hard. The scene that opens before me is one of awe. A waterfall pounds the rock on the far edge, and big lights are hanging from the rock walls, illuminating a table filled with various working devices and weapons, maybe? Probably. A big, black, for lack of a better word, car looms in the darkness by the waterfall. I stay far away from it. As soon as the awe wears off, though, the claustrophobia sets in.

Bruce's voice materializing out of the darkness startles me into flight, as if I'm not edgy enough, and I hit my head on the cave roof. I hear Bruce chuckle beneath me.

"Got curious?" he calls up to me. I land on the ground with a thump.

"A little," I admit.

"I've decided to call it the Batcave," Bruce says contemplatively.

"Fitting," I swallow thickly. Claustrophobia wraps its fat fingers around my lungs, my breathing again escalates, and my feet are rooted to the floor like those strange, demented plants that, through some case of mistaken identity, dwell in caves. Underground is not a good place for me to be. I don't know what I was thinking.

"Breezy?" Bruce says worriedly, "What's wrong?"

I wave half-heartedly in his direction with one hand, the other grasping at my throat, trying to open it up for breath again. Bruce moves like lightning to reach me before I fall to the cold, hard rock. He pats my face rapidly, attempting to shake me out of my daze. I push against his arms, but with a little more force than I intended. Bruce slams into the rock wall, and as soon as I see that flash of unexpected pain splash across his face my feet are moving once more towards the elevator.

I stumble into the cheery little parlor and the need to hit something overwhelms me. I curl my fists and bring them to my mouth to fight the urge. After a few calming moments and some twitching, I call down the still-open elevator shaft.

"Bruce?" I ask meekly.

"Yes?" Bruce's voice rises out of the murkiness, and he doesn't sound terribly annoyed with me.

"Um, are you okay?" I bite my nails shamefully.

"I'm fine," Bruce yells. I don't know where to go from here, so I walk quietly away.

When Bruce finally does come sunny-side, he seeks me out. I am out in the yard, weeding for Alfred.

"Alfred has you working?" Bruce asks skeptically, coming up behind me and spooking me again.

"Um, yeah," I shrug, "I felt bad." Bruce smiles a little bit and nods.

"Well, I'm going to take a swim in the pool, if you can tear yourself away from your weeds," he invites me, and I notice for the first time his multi-colored shorts and the towel slung over his shoulder, but I laugh at him. At Bruce's look of puzzlement, I explain.

"Look at me, Bruce," I pull at one of my wings, "Do I look like I'm made for the water?"

"About as much as you are for underground?" Bruce guesses jokingly.

"Yeah," I roll my eyes sarcastically at him.

Night falls, and Bruce departs his mansion once again. I watch his car blast out of the ground a few miles away and leave Wayne Manor, and the rest of us, in the dust.

"Is that thing safe?" I worry to Alfred, who is standing right next to me.

"About as safe as they can get," Alfred assures me. I nibble at my nails and Alfred reprimands me, "Nasty habit, Ms. Breezy, nasty habit."

"I know," I sigh. I could never get him to stop calling me miss. Boredom reigns over me for the next few hours. I bug Alfred for a little bit, and generally feel under-stimulated. I go into my room and sing to the radio for a while, but after about twenty minutes Alfred shows up and takes the thing, saying that he "couldn't bear it any longer". Gee, thanks. I turn on the tube, but those things have never interested me and I switch it off quickly. Alfred suggests reading a book when I find him again, but I am the world's slowest reader, and books are about the same as TV for me. I bore too quickly to read a book.

Finally, I settle on a flight. Alfred warns me on wear to fly, and I smile inside, because he sounds so fatherly. So, like any good daughter, I ignore his warnings completely, and head to the city.

"Going to the city, got you on my mind," I croon to myself while I'm flying, even though I'm the farthest thing from a "fool for the city". Gotham threatens the world as I draw closer to it. It is like a monster; scary, terrifying, but yet fascinating and unavoidable at the same time.

I wonder idly where Bruce, or rather Batman, is now. I stay far from the city street for as long as I can though. Gunshots ring through the air, reaching even me high in the sky. Gotham reels me in like a fish. Luckily, I'm wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and I pull the ample hood over me head, hoping it will shadow my face enough beyond recognition. I land on a building, and watch the scene that unfolds. Two mobs are facing each other off, guns already firing in the lower ranks. I guess that this is some sort of gang rumble, but a man stands in the middle, his face disfigured.

He is holding bags in the air for the watching people to see and shouting to them, "I have what you need right here!" There is a wicked smile that is only in his voice that I detect. It confuses me.

"What is it?" asks one of the punks standing closest to the man.

"A cure," the man says, and that strange tone doesn't change. The punk reaches out tentatively and takes one of the bags, exchanging a wad of money for it. The man with no face nods happily. He tosses the other bag to the other side when another wad of cash falls at his feet, and greedy hands grapple for a littler bag of the white stuff.

"How do we use it?" the first punk calls out. He is holding one of the white bags open, and there are traces of it on his face, "I don't feel anything."

"It has to be," the man who gave out the drugs pauses, and moves closer to the punk, "airborne." A mist shoots from the man's face and the punk screams and falls, writhing, to the ground. Did he just breathe on that guy? Talk about a bad case of rancid breath. I am about to give up on having some fun tonight and go back to Wayne Manor when a black shape hurtles into my eyesight like an inside-out comet. It's got to be Bruce. Protection instincts take over, and I find myself flying down to help him. A little part of my mind is screaming at me to cut the bullshit and leave before Bruce realizes that I'm here, but I shove it into a corner and tell it to shut up.

A man is coming upon Bruce's, errr _Batman's_, back and I land on him and then am forced to duck under Batman's flailing punch that was meant for the sneak attacker. I pop up after the fist passes harmlessly over my head and Batman grunts angrily. I turn my back to him and kick the crap out of an unskilled and easily disposed of punk. We fight like that, back to back, trying to reach the man with no face.

We both see him escaping down an alley; "Get him," Batman growls at me. Well, for one thing, he has definitely disguised his voice well. I leap into the air, and bullets fly around me. They're aiming for me, I realize with a shock. Bastards! I fly above the alley that the man disappeared down and locate his puny body hustling along it. What now? I freak out in my mind, because I don't know what to do. What if he breathes on me? What if I let him get away?

The questions almost halt my forward progress, but I drive on, thinking of how disappointed Batman would surely be if I came back without this man. I let my instincts take over, and hurtle downwards. I land right in front of the man and try to intimidate him with a growl like Batman had earlier, but it just sounds like a hairball is stuck in my throat. The man gazes steadily at me, and then I notice that what I thought was just a severely deformed face is really just a burlap sack.

"What have we here?" the burlap sack hisses, "The little birdie that whispers in the Bat's ear?"

"What?" I gape at him. I am terrible at this hero stuff.

"No matter," the sack says, and his voice again takes on that strange quality. I should probably be disabling him or something, so I aim a punch for where I think his nose is. The man ducks and hits me in the ribs. I double up with a gasp, and the hit angers me. The man is behind me now, so I pivot, but before I can raise my leg for a kick, a hissing fills my ears, and the mist erupts from his mouth-area. I stare at the smoke uncomprehendingly and by then it is too late. The man escapes down the alley, leaving me to wonder what he did to me.

A second passes, and then it hits me. He drugged me, that I knew, but in my experience, drugs never really worked on me, something to do with my birdbrain. My stomach contracts and I throw up onto my feet. My head is pounding and the alley walls are spinning around me.

Feet. Behind me. I start to run away from them, but a hand grabs my shoulder, spinning me about. A man with pointy, black ears gazes down into my wide eyes. His mouth is set in a permanent frown and I peer at his familiar eyes.

"What the fuck?" I mumble, trying to break his grasp on my arm. Fear, suddenly like iron, starts to crack when the pointy-eared thing whispers my name. I twitch at the familiar sound.

"Breezy," the thing says again. The voice is tearing apart my fear, replacing it with warmth.

"Bruce," I swallow. My head is still pounding, and my heart is beating a mile a minute, literally, but at least I am slightly rational. Bruce pushes a button on his arm, and then brings me against his chest, sheltering me from the world, and we wait. His car pulls up behind us. I can hear its growl. What is he doing? No. No! Bruce, no! I can't speak a word; my body is paralyzed by the return of fear.

"Come on, Breezy, its okay," Bruce urges me towards the car, but seeing that I won't budge, he picks me up swiftly and sets me in the seat. "I'm going to take you home," he says slowly, like he's talking to a dumb person. I manage to shake my head slightly. Batman jumps into the opposite seat and the roof settles over us with a groan. My mouth is dry and I can't remember the taste of water or the feel of wind. My stomach vaults forward at the first hint of a stop, and I hurl again.

"Ick," I hear my shadowy torturer mumble. The crisp, searing scent of the vomit frees my body. My mind, though, is still trapped in the icy fortress of fear.

"Lemme out," I gasp. The shadow ignores me. "Lemme out!" I scream shrilly. I thrash in my seat and the shadow reaches out to touch my face, to calm me. Desperation claims me, and I swing my arms about, trying to get out. The first thing I manage to do is unclasp the buckles that hold me in place.

"No, stop it!" the shadows cries. I reach for the buttons on the dashboard and start to push them rapidly. "Breezy!" the shadow cries again. I punch at the ceiling and where I thought the door should be. The little cabin shrinks around me, like a boa it squeezes the breath from my body. I have to get out. My attacks triple in intensity, like the last dying flame of a fire trying frantically to hold onto life. The darkness in the vehicle starts to move and shake. I have made it angry, but that makes me more distressed. I need to get out before it kills me.

The darkness reaches out for me, and I shrink in my seat, hiding from its searching tendrils. One finds me, and I go absolutely ape-shit. The monster shudders under my ensuing attack.

"Breezy, no!" the darkness commands urgently. But I can hear the fear in _its_ voice and that gives me strength. Outside of the monster's belly, the world lights up again and again. Suddenly, the monster stops. I am thrown against the ceiling as it flips over and hits something else.

I can hear the darkness shriek and I know that I've won. No matter that I'm going to die now, the darkness didn't get me. I giggle manically as I stumble out of the monster's belly. Another figure does the same, but they don't find the same humor that I do. A warm liquid drips onto my face and eyes and my fingers come away covered in blood. I look at it impassively for a moment, before blacking out.


	12. Tequila Sunrise

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

I finally understand the phrase that people use when something happens that is beyond the ordinary. The structure for said phrase is "the blank to end all blanks", insert whatever happened in the blank.

For example, this morning, I woke up with the headache to end all headaches (see how that works?). Before this enlightening experience, it was just a hyperbole for a really monstrous headache. But now I understand completely. The headache that tortures me at this moment in time will truly end all others, because my head is going to explode from it, and you can't have a headache without a head.

Morning sunlight tries vainly to cheer me up as I wander down the hall to the kitchen. Memories of last night skip through my head like demonic children, leaving death in their wake.

There is a note on the table. It is addressed to the gardener and says that Master Wayne and his servant Alfred have gone out for the morning and that he should continue with his regular activities. They left? Boy, do I feel loved. Well, I can say at least one thing about last night; I will _never_ want to go back into Gotham again.

My throat is raw from throwing up, and my stomach is despairingly empty. I am covered in bumps and bruises and other little lacerations. But my real concern is my head. I inspect it in a mirror, the long, red gash running from just below the hairline above my right eye all the way to the middle of the back of my skull.

The doorbell chimes, interrupting my self-examination. I wait for Alfred's voice to greet the visitor, but it never comes. Right, Alfred has left me here to die, as has Bruce. I shall remember to give them much shit about it when they return.

I slump back to my room, and crawl under my blankets again, but the doorbell keeps going. Whoever is waiting better quit their persistent ways now, or they'll have hell to pay.

Of course, they don't desist, and, fed up, I wrap my sheet around my shoulders and pull a hat gingerly over my head. There are a few minor bruises on my face, and especially under my eyes, but those could pass as unusually dark bags.

I pull the door open, and a woman is standing on the other side, looking impatient.

"What?" I snarl. She looks shocked by my rudeness. I laugh at her on the inside.

"Is Bruce here?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, like muted bells, and I want to lift her puny body over my head and then punt her over the fence.

"No," I respond shortly.

"Oh," she bites her bottom lip and pops her eyes awkwardly, "I've been trying to get a hold of him all morning, but he hasn't answered so I figured he might still be sleeping.

"Yeah, he did have a long night," I mumble, "But he's out right now."

"Oh," the woman says again, but this time her eyebrows lift and she sniffs judgingly, "Well then, I'll just try again later when he's in more _suitable_ company."

"You do that," I say, the insult not registering in my mind until after I've shut the door on her. I mouth her sentence back to myself and then throw open the door again, making sure to keep a tight hand on my makeshift robe no matter what, "Hey! What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" The woman is walking briskly down the steps now, anger in her very step. She doesn't turn around to answer me, so I flip her the bird and slam the door again.

Slamming not a good idea. Sharp icicles of pain lace through my brain again and I stumble back to bed. Some hours later, Bruce gently shakes me awake.

"How are you feeling?!" he screams at me.

"Shhh," I groan, covering my ears with one of the numerous, useless pillows that adorn my bed and turning my face away from him. He lifts the hat that I had forgotten about off and sighs unhappily.

"What's with the hat?!" he bellows again.

"Shhh!" I hiss, sitting up to glare at him.

"Why are you shushing me?! If I talked any quieter I wouldn't be talking at all!" Bruce yells.

"Lady came for you. Wouldn't go away. Had to talk to her, make her leave," I say, using as little words as possible.

"Who was it?" Bruce asks, his voice dropping down to a semi-normal tone.

"Dunno," I mumble.

"You want some breakfast?" Bruce says, and the word breakfast sparks some flicker of life in me.

"Yes," I say, standing up slowly and stretching my arms and wings out.

Bruce walks me out to the kitchen, holding onto my arm the whole way.

"Mm, Denver omelet," I say, the smell assaulting my nose, "My favorite."

"Good morning, Ms. Breezy. Had a bit of trouble last night, did we?" Alfred greets me cheerily. At least he's not screaming at me. I would say something sarcastic but the omelet absorbs all my attention. "Spent all morning cleaning up your mess," Alfred adds, probably looking for some gratitude.

"What mess?" I ask, momentarily distracted from the omelet, "The one in the car?"

"No, the one on the highway," Bruce says, "You destroyed almost an entire forest on the outskirts of town. Not to mention all the electrical wires you took down."

"Forest?" I say, wondering what he's talking about.

"Do you remember last night?" Bruce asks suspiciously.

"I remember going to Gotham, fighting with you, and then getting drugged by that burlap sack," I say.

"Scarecrow," Bruce interrupts me, "Still not quite sure who he is, but I'm working on it."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the rest is pretty fuzzy. I remember you being there, sort of, but then you put me in that stupid car of yours and I think I blacked out or something."

"Oh, no," Bruce laughs cynically, "You definitely did _not_ black out. You went nuts and half-destroyed my 'stupid car' while burning down a forest with the rockets and running us into every electrical pole between here and Gotham."

"Maybe if you hadn't made my ride in stupid car that never would've happened," I growl. I'm not in a good mood, obviously, and Bruce isn't catching it.

"You just overreacted," Bruce says with a shrug of his shoulders.

"_Overreacted?!_" I shout, "I was toasted on some wacky drug and you stuck me smack dab in the middle of my worst nightmare! What was I supposed to do, sing about rocking horse people and marshmallow pies?!"

"Rocking horse people?" Bruce was at first shocked by my outburst, but the phrase captured his attention.

"Yeah, you know, follow her down to a bridge by a fountain, where rocking horse people, eat marshmallow pies," I warble, sidetracked also. Bruce still doesn't get it, so I say, "Lucy in the sky with diamonds? Come on, Brucie."

"Don't call me Brucie," Bruce sighs.

"Don't piss me off," I retort.

"Fair enough," Bruce smiles. After a moment's pause he continues, "You know, I was really worried about all this. About the streak of evidence you left behind, about you, about my car. But I guess it was for nothing."

"You were worried about me?" I ask teasingly, but then Alfred sets the omelet down in front of me and my side of the conversation ends, but Bruce keeps going.

"Yeah, there was a time there when you really had me concerned," he admits, "Still trying to figure out what Scarecrow did to you. I got Lucius to take some blood samples. I hope you don't mind."

True, a shiver runs down my spine when Bruce mentions his scientist friend violating my personal space, but I just shake my head.

"Oh, and he's going to be here later to ask you some questions about it," Bruce adds quickly, maybe hoping that I will just nod vacantly. But I don't, and I look up at him from my omelet pleadingly.

"Don't give me that look, please," Bruce beseeches me, "We need to find out what Scarecrow's selling."

Lucius arrives after I had taken a nice, long, hot shower and scrubbed away the stench of Gotham that had stuck to me. Again, I find nice clothes set out for me, but I opt for one of my already prepared outfits.

"Nice to see you again, Ms. Breezy," Lucius greets me warmly, too warmly, "Although a little damaged, I might say."

"Had a rough night," I grumble at him. Bruce pinches my arm, hinting for politeness.

"I'd like to ask you some questions, if that's alright," Lucius says kindly. He really isn't a bad guy, I decide, but I have less than love for his line of work.

"What do you want to know?" I say, like the trooper that Bruce wants me to be. I catch him smile out of the corner of my eye, and I know that he knows that I'm only doing this for him.

"Can you describe some of the main things that stuck out in your mind while you were on the drug?"

"Well, having only hit up once," I begin, but Bruce interrupts me again.

"Breezy," he chastises.

"Okay, sorry," I mutter, "Um, I don't really remember much, but I do remember being scared of a lot."

"Scared?" Lucius repeats, scrawling something down in his ragtag notebook.

"Yeah, kind of like … kind of like all my fears were amplified," I put the feelings into words successfully. There is something else, and it is tantalizing the tip of my tongue, begging to be noticed, but I can't reach it. "That's why when Bruce put me in the car I really flipped my lid."

"What did you do to my baby?" Lucius asks Bruce pointedly.

"Her fault," Bruce points jokingly at me.

I point to myself disbelievingly, "I thought we had already hashed this out. And besides, it's just a car. Can we just get this over with?"

They both swallow their upcoming comments and Lucius says, "So, a fear-inducing drug?"

"Yes!" I suddenly shout, pointing excitedly at Lucius. They both stare at me like I'm high again, "Bruce!"

"What?" Mr. Smooth doesn't even jump at this sudden explosion, but curiosity fills his eyes.

"It was like …" I pause, unsure of how much Lucius know of Bruce's past, "You remember that one time, when you used that drug that that crazy old man gave you, and you ran around for days pretending you were a ninja and yelling about bats?"

* * *

"That wasn't obvious at all," Bruce tells me sarcastically after showing a much-confused Lucius the door.

"Sorry, I got excited," I say, too proud of myself for figuring out where I'd seen these affects before to let Bruce tarnish it.

"Nice work, though," Bruce says, "I wonder how Scarecrow is getting these."

"You don't think …" I leave the sentence open, knowing that Bruce will draw his own conclusions.

"Can't be," Bruce says, "It can't."

"Alright," I accept his belief, "So where do you think Scarecrow's getting them from?"

"I don't know, but I have a hunch on who he is. I'll find out tonight, I guess."

"Good luck," I say, unease coloring my tone.

"Don't worry," Bruce notes the alarm, "And that girl from this morning, that was Rachel Dawes. Remember when I told you about her? I talked to her on the phone while you were showering, and she seemed pretty upset about finding you here."

"Yeah, well, I was upset that she wouldn't leave when there was so clearly nobody home," I huff.

"Nobody but you," Bruce agrees, "Just be a little nicer next time you answer the door, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever," I say. Rachel. I grind my teeth forcefully. Bruce told me about _Rachel_ and how she was a mega-bitch. Um, actually, he didn't say that, but that's the impression I got, both when he was telling me about her and this morning.

"Glad to see you back to your old self," Bruce smiles at me.

"Not quite," I mutter, rubbing my temples.

"Head hurts?" Bruce asks, even though the answer is obvious.

"That's an understatement," I correct him.

"It'll go away," Bruce says, taking my hand and leading me to the ample gardens that surround Wayne Manor, "Let's see how much some outside air helps it."

Even though the last thing I want to do right now is go for a walk through the gardens, I follow Bruce. We make some small talk, about what it was like growing up here, etcetera.

As we arrive back at the house, Bruce says, "There. How do you feel now?"

I could spare his feelings and tell him that the walk worked wonders, but I don't, "Still pretty crappy."

Bruce wasn't expecting anything less, I can tell by that ironic little smile, "By the way, Rachel's coming over tonight for a little bit." I try my hardest not to grimace, but a little frown slips through. "Please, try to make friends?" Bruce begs me.

"Um, I'll just go out for the night or something," I suggest. Anything to get me out of this house while _she's_ here.

"What will you do?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know, go clubbing or something," I joke, "Alfred keeps on telling me I need a night out."

"You don't have to go," Bruce says, and I can see in his eyes he doesn't want me to leave. It makes me blush, and Bruce notices but doesn't comment.

"Maybe I'll go catch a movie or something," I say, seriously now, though I'll probably just end up crashing in the greenhouse.

"Alfred could go with you," Bruce contemplates, "He hasn't had a night off in a long time."

"Bruce, I don't need a bodyguard," I roll my eyes at him, "And besides, Alfred probably has to stay here to _chaperone_." I nudge his ribs and wink. Bruce just shakes his head at me, taking my joke sincerely.

"Things between me and Rachel aren't like that," he says. I knew that already, so I wonder why he said that. Maybe to quell my fears? Most likely to remind himself, no matter how much he wishes it was different.

My fingers are tapping anxiously against the door jam, "Anyway, my staying here is out of the question. She would probably get angry."

"Yeah, maybe you're right," Bruce cedes.

"I know I'm right," I grin triumphantly.

"You could stay at my penthouse in the city," Bruce proposes.

"Whatever," I shrug. That turns out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made. Bruce's penthouse is a lush affair, and I don't think I've ever slept in such a comfy, big bed. But the real kicker is that when Alfred's giant face appears on one of the walls, telling me that Bruce is in trouble, I'm already close by.


	13. Night Moves

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

**A/N - I was really unsure of this chapter and that's why it took so long. Please share your thoughts on it, good or bad.**

Imagined scenarios are burned into my brain as I soar over Gotham's streets, looking for a broken bat. Worry and adrenaline mix as one in my blood, propelling me faster than I have ever flown before. I see the tenement fire and abandon Alfred's hasty directions, making for the blaze.

Side alley, side alley, I think frantically. Crowd of people all mulling about. By side alley. Black shape among the trash. My abnormally sharp eyes pick up the scenes as I fly closer. I land in front of the body and shriek wordlessly at the bystanders. Most scurry away.

Batman's battered body is lying still in the trash heap. In an act of superhuman, adrenaline-charged strength, I lift him behind my head and onto my shoulders, using the upper structures of my wings to support most of his weight and holding onto him by and arm and a leg. I'm not quite sure how I'll handle flying, but the thought doesn't occur to me yet.

A policeman is running at us, "Is he okay?"

I panic at the man's words because they confuse me, and I take off into the night sky. I flap awkwardly at first, and am forced to clutch Batman under his armpits, hanging down away from me, in a way I'm positive isn't good for him. Batman starts to mumble things and they scare me. About halfway to Wayne Manor, the burn creeps into my arms. I ward it off until I arrive on the lawn of Bruce's daytime mansion. Alfred is waiting on the steps for me, as I half-drag, half-carry Batman up the steps.

"What happened?" Alfred presses eagerly.

"I don't know!" I snap, but a feeling of regret washes over me soon after. Together, we carry Bruce inside, strip him of his suit, and lay him on his bed. Lucius arrives in the next few minutes, and stabs a needle into Bruce's elbow. He tells us to keep Bruce cool, for he is running a fever, and to stitch up any wounds.

I take over the job unthinkingly. I have patched him up so many times before this almost feels like coming home. There are a few minor cuts and a head injury; we just can't seem to stay away from those here at Wayne Manor, and possibly a broken rib from the fall he took from the top of the building.

Alfred puts a gentle hand on my shoulder in the middle of my healing frenzy, pulling me away.

"You need your rest too," he says, tapping my head lightly to remind me of my own injuries. Bruce starts muttering then, and I shake off Alfred's hand.

"To hell with that," I sneer. Alfred sighs and lets me finish. But once I'm done, he hounds me again. Bruce's nightmarish mumblings have struck a deep chord of fear in my heart and I refuse bluntly to leave. I do, for a swift bathroom break, and I hear him screaming all the way down the hall. I dash back to his room and glance at Alfred, who shrugs hopelessly at me. Bruce calms again when I take his hand and press it to my face, reduced to more garbling.

"You seem to be calming him," Alfred notes dryly. I glance up at him, and a tiredness I've never seen before creases across the middle of his forehead and sullies his eyes. He looks rather like this mansion, old, yet grand, putting out a brave, beautiful front but rotting slowly from misuse and tragedy on the inside.

"Yeah, I can have that affect on some people," I say, desperate not to sit in silence again, "Something to do with angels."

"Hmm," Alfred sighs wearily. We lapse into silence once more, broken only by Bruce's garble.

Eventually, I find something to say, if only because I'm practically falling asleep here on the edge of this dreary bed, "I didn't know Bruce was fluent in Yiddish." But the joke has no air, and it falls flat at our feet. The next thing I remember after that is waking up in my bedroom, my sheets tangling me in a knot of Gordian proportions and the sun making an effort to shine through my black-out blinds.

I bowl through Bruce's door, making all the noise that I could while trying to be as quiet as inhumanly possible.

Alfred sees my frantic eyes and smiles a little bit, "It's okay, Ms. Breezy, he's sleeping."

"Ugh, I never should have fallen asleep. I feel wretched," I groan, sinking to the cushioned ledge underneath the window. Alfred looks much better. That frightening wrinkle in his forehead and eyes is smoothed again, and he looks more himself.

"Lucius is promising an antidote by the end of this very day," Alfred informs me happily, "And Master Wayne has been sleeping peacefully for at least five hours now."

"Are you sure he's not dead?" I mutter darkly. Alfred chooses not to hear me so I say, "End of the day?"

"Yes," he replies curtly. I must've made him mad with my doom-and-gloom attitude.

"Why not sooner?" I demand. My uneasiness has morphed me into somewhat of a bitch, I think.

"He just got Master Wayne's blood samples last night," Alfred reminds me.

"Well, why didn't he make it off mine?" I insist, "He had _that_ two nights ago. He would have the antidote by now." Dirty thoughts of Lucius creep into my cranium.

"We weren't aware that Master Wayne would be affected like this two nights ago. You didn't suffer half as bad as he has. Some mumbling, and a bit of groaning, and you were fine again." Oh right, my birdbrain. "And furthermore, Lucius most likely wouldn't have been able to make one for Master Wayne from your … special blood."

"I get it Alfred," I cut him off before he drives his point home any further, "I'm just stressed, okay?"

"Aren't we all, Ms. Breezy?" Alfred asks. I look up at him, but there is no reprimand on his face, only a kind, buttery smile. His next question is like a bomb, "Ms. Breezy, I feel compelled to ask you a personal question." And without waiting for an answer, "You love Bruce?"

I snort and stare at him for a few seconds before snorting a couple more times and shaking my head. When his eyes finally press me for a verbal answer, I say, "It doesn't matter anyway."

"Now, how can you say that?" Alfred says disbelievingly.

"_Because_," I emphasis the word like I'm about to make a giant point, but sigh and say, "He loves Rachel, doesn't he?"

Alfred has that sour look on his face, like that is the one question he was hoping I wouldn't ask, but he answers, "Yes, I think a part of Master Wayne still has affections for Ms. Dawes. They've known each other for a very long time, you know?"

I nod, suddenly anxious to be anywhere but here. My palms are sweating as they rest in Bruce's relaxed hands.

"But you know what else I think?" Alfred says shrewdly, "He loves you too."

I giggle harshly, but he isn't joking, so I grunt, "Don't be ridiculous, Alfred."

"Ms. Breezy, I am _never_ ridiculous," Alfred says haughtily, while maintaining a perfectly straight face, "And most certainly not now."

"Alfred, that's impossible," I state matter-of-factly. No one could love me, or someone is bound to have by now.

"And why is that?" Alfred asks, and, in that way of his, continues with his speech, "Sure, you are not the … usual type of girl Master Wayne would go for, but after spending time with you, it would be difficult to understand how he couldn't love you."

"Really?" I ask meekly.

"Really, really," Alfred smiles genially.

"But than how come he hasn't … or done … even said … hinted," I babble, frantic not to let too much hope past my carefully kept guard. Too much hope will kill a person, because nine times out of ten it is for nothing.

"Maybe he just doesn't realize it yet," Alfred brushes off my worries.

"Well, there you go!" I practically shout, and then lower my voice to inside standards again. Silence descends, and Alfred looks smug, like he had just won an argument or something. It's obvious that I lo… have deep feelings for Bruce, but he didn't have to point it out. It's not like we could have a life together or anything.

"He talks about you all the time, you know," Alfred interrupts my thoughts, "Even when I witnessed whatever you did, he still retells it." He's hinting at me to make a move, I can tell. But he doesn't know the truth. It hits me then, the truth, and I blurt it out.

"I'm not staying, Alfred," I say quietly. I wonder if he'll tell Bruce and hope that he won't. I wanted this to be a clean break, but I'd be the only one hurting anyway. But my statement shuts Alfred up, and after a few unbearably heavy moments he sighs disappointedly and gets up to leave. It makes me angry.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask scathingly. Alfred turns around to look at me. "I don't have anything for him. He can't just throw me in a cocktail dress and take me out for a night on the town. That's what he needs, something normal like that. He doesn't need more weirdness in his life."

"That is where you're mistaken," Alfred tells me, "You have everything Bruce needs. A heart brimming over with love, and a spirit so like his own. I can't make you stay, obviously, but while you're here, give him what you can. He'll need it, if only the thought, in years to come."

"I can't be what you want me to be," I snarl. Alfred pauses on his way out the doorway, and I see the slump of his shoulders. "Don't expect me to."

Of course, after I cooled down, I felt horrible about it, but it was true. High expectations are as bad as hope. Bruce was delivered the antidote, and after a long day of avoiding Alfred and camping out in Bruce's room, I fall asleep on his window ledge seat.

A calloused, familiar hand brushes against my face. I awake with a start and Bruce's eyes, an unreadable black in the night's darkness, are inches away from my own.

"Bruce?" I mumble sleepily. A small blanket is covering me, and with a considerable amount of shame I decide that Alfred must have put it there.

"Yes?" Bruce's husky voice stirs my heart into full wakefulness.

"You're awake!" the full realization hits me suddenly, and in my blind gratitude, I rush into his chest and kiss him for a long second.

He coughs when I pry myself away, my cheeks so on fire that they were probably glowing.

"Good morning to you, too," Bruce says in full playboy-Bruce prose. I just glare mockingly at him; my happiness beyond even the words to point out that it's the middle of the night.

"How do you feel?" I ask, my mind gargling up the first sentence that came to it.

"A little stiff, but okay," Bruce says. My long few days of worry are over, and it leaves me in a gust, a slightly empty feeling inside remaining.

"Thank God," I mutter. I am not the most religious person you'll ever meet, and I cracked up sinfully during Dana Carvey's Church Lady skit on SNL just like everyone else, but right now I am thanking whoever's listening with every cell of my body.

Which is why I don't see the resolution in Bruce's eyes, or the slight tremor of his hand that still rests on my hip before it's too late. He kisses me again, almost curiously, and then pulls away.

"Uh, um," I stutter, my mind still stunned, "Is there, um, anything you need?

Bruce shakes his head and I can sense his inner smile. "Just have to use the bathroom."

"Guess I can't help you with that, huh?" I babble. Bruce cocks his head to the side and without another word goes into the adjoining bathroom. I plop on the bed and smack my palm to my forehead. Anticipation and uncertainty play a cacophonous tune in my brain; this could be a very important night, and I'm ruining it by being an antisocial idiot. Coward that I am, I almost slip out the door before Bruce is finished.

His hand wraps itself around my elbow and anchors me in my spot. "I wasn't done with you," he whispers huskily. The first thought from my neurons is 'Hmm, kinky' but I deny it the right to pass into the world of spoken language.

"Bruce …" I beg, but I don't quite know what I'm begging for. It doesn't for a second halt his advance though. What supreme confidence this man has, I side-note as he sits down next to me on this once-ostentatious, now-glorious bed and kisses me again.

The night fills quickly with gentle touches and sighs of passion.


	14. Born to Run

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

The night wind feels good against my burning skin. Wind is different during the night. Believe me, I would know these things. Night wind is more refreshing than day wind. It's cooler, but not biting at this time of year, and has this mysterious feel to it, like it carries on it all the secrets of a lover's whisper.

I'm not running away. I say that over and over in my head. I'm just … out for a gentle fly. I'll go back. Really.

Bruce was fast asleep when I crept out of the dark room that currently holds my heart prisoner. I just needed to escape for a little bit. I'll be back before sunrise.

Still as confused as was I was before, I fly on. I had thought that after the things that had passed, everything would be steeped in a clearer, brighter light. Not so. I'm not regretful, it's only been a few hours and regretting it right away would be almost insulting, just still as confused as ever. I don't even know if I'm going to leave soon now. The one rock in my existence, my one sureness, has been turned upside down. What a pitiful life mine is, when my one certainty is running away from things. Eh, I never claimed not to be a coward.

My body still burns with Bruce's heat and I can feel him dispersing in my bloodstream, sending himself into every corner of my existence. Instinctively, I turn around and rush back to Wayne Manor. Bruce is still where I left him, safe and sound. Alfred has fallen asleep in front of a fire, a book on his blanketed lap. I peek at the cover, Montaigne. Not the most educated person, I don't recognize the name, but assume it's probably over my head anyway.

I debate going to my own bed, but settle carefully and stiffly in Bruce's, as far from him as possible. I wake up alone with the sun peering at me through the wide open window. A breeze, impossibly different from last night's, curls the sheets against me. I stumble into the hallway. I hear noise in the kitchen. Bruce is making me food, listening to a classical music station on the small radio that I thought Alfred had disposed of.

I take a seat at the counter and refrain from speaking at the moment. I gaze steadily at Bruce's back, his muscled, perfect back. I know he knows I'm sitting here, but he doesn't acknowledge me in the slightest. The music almost puts me back to sleep, and I change the station.

"_Oh, what a night! Late December back in '63. What a very special time for me, 'cause I remember what a night. Oh, what a night. You know, I didn't even know her name, but I was never gonna be the same. What a lady. What a night."_

I change it again, swiftly. I catch the tremor in Bruce's shoulders that is the only give-away that he just laughed.

"_And she bangs, she bangs. Oh baby, when she moves, she moves-"_

I am mortified, almost at the point of throwing the damn thing against the wall, when Bruce's hands enclose mine. I look up into his eyes, his face creased in a rare smile.

"Seriously, who still plays that song?" I mutter, as he stretches over the counter to kiss my forehead. It's a sweet moment, one that would be antagonized over during a movie production. Who knew those moments actually existed?

Without another word to calm my nerves, Bruce turns back to his oven. Was it that bad? I wish I could read his mind; that would make things so much easier. I should have left last night when I was free.

The elephant sits in the room, that's the common cliché, but right now it's a whole universe that squats in the kitchen. A universe filled with doubt and unspoken words.

"I'll be out by tonight," I finally say in a small, small voice.

Bruce freezes. "Good," I can imagine him saying it in my head, even as he turns to me with wide eyes. "Wha-what?" I really do cherish these rare moments when he looks so … vulnerable.

"I can pack up and leave tonight, maybe even this afternoon … if you want me to," I say, my face as blank as the gray area beyond the known universe.

"Why would I want that?" Bruce asks me, his tone on the brink of condescending and visage again unshakable.

I shrug miserably. Way to screw everything up, Breezy, I scold myself.

"I don't want you to leave," Bruce says. He knows he's upset me, and he feels bad. I let him for a moment.

"Last night was a mistake, admit it," I scowl.

"Last night was _not_ a mistake," Bruce says, more defensive than I foresaw, "Don't ever think that."

"Okay, not a mistake," I concede quickly, not wanting to anger him, "But a one time deal." His face visibly droops and it confuses me so much I almost stop. "And I'm just saying, if you would rather me get out of the way, I'll be gone and you'll be free to forget."

"You're really stupid sometimes, you know that?" Bruce says angrily. Whoops.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I don't want you to go. I don't want that to be a one time deal. If there's any way that you would … stay indefinitely … just say the word and I'd do anything."

"You don't want me here forever. I'd get annoying," I joke, swallowing my feelings.

"I'm not kidding."

"I know. Me neither. But Bruce, I can't stay. We both know it. So, let's not push this any further, if it can get any further," I mutter under my breath, and then continue, "It'll only end badly." He closes his eyes and I almost think he's going to cry. How ridiculous. But then he nods his head and begins to walk past me.

"But I'm still here now," I say, grabbing his arm. I don't want him to ignore me or hate me or stop … loving me, I just don't want to sleep with him again and make it harder when I leave. He twists in my grasp and pulls me off the countertop, kissing me more passionately then I remember him ever doing before.

"Okay, I'll stay," I grin widely, probably too widely, "For now." The statement darkens his eyes, but he doesn't ask me what I thought he was going to as we sit down side-by-side at the table.

"Breezy? There's been something that's been on my mind since I met you."

"Shoot," I tell him, not perceiving the implications.

"How did you get into the League of Shadows in the first place?"

I drop my fork and push away from the table, flight-or-flight instinct taking over. Yeah, I know, duh, Breezy, it's _fight_-or-flight. Nope, wrong. I'm part bird, so that gives me like, three parts flight and only one part fight.

"Breezy!" he calls after me. I flee to my bedroom and lock the door. "This door won't stop me!" he shouts, "Come on, Breeze!"

"No!" I shout back.

"Breezy! You're being childish! We just … connected more deeply than some people will ever know and you won't even tell me some of your history?"

He ends up breaking down my door, and pins me on the bed underneath his body, "Please?"

"Fine," I push him away and huddle in a corner of the bed. I wait until he makes himself comfortable, and rush into it, not wanting interruptions.

"It was about ten years ago. I was in northern Canada and a group of Eskimo men found my hide-out and … would've killed me if Ducard hadn't shown up. I guess they were criminals he had been tracking, and he caught up with them while they were killing me." The shadows cast angry furrows on Bruce's face, but they're not the only factor. "They didn't … rape me or anything, they were just looking for money and food and a fun kill. Besides, they were a bit scared of me, I think. Anyway, Ducard shows up, beats 'em down, and then takes me. I was unconscious and he was planning on just taking me to the nearest village and dumping me, but he was curious and the people probably would've killed me anyway and he knew it. I think his curiosity actually saved my life, because he would've left me had he not been so intrigued. Over the next few months I travelled with him, all over the world. I had never been accepted by any human being before, at least not one that didn't want to stick me in a cage, so it was a special kind of feeling."

I laughed once, scornfully, "At one point, I thought I loved him. But it was sick, and thankfully he never capitalized on it. Anyway, he taught me to channel the hate that I had, but had never put into words, for the society that feared me. The pain, the loneliness I felt every moment of my life was almost unbearable. We are not made to be solitary creatures; even the bird part of me craves fellowship. Have you ever been left out of something?"

Bruce thinks back for a moment, and then says, "Not really. The only thing I can think of is my grade school years when I would arrive at the playground every day conveniently just in time for everyone to finish playing kickball. It was earth-shattering, at the time."

"Okay, think of that feeling, only amplified about a gazillion times," I grin weakly, "That's what it was like for me. No parents to love me, no friends to comfort me, no people to claim me. Only Henri Ducard and his magic words. So, naturally, when he told me about his League of justice-enforcing soldiers, I immediately put my name on that list. He manipulated me into it, really. I joined, rose through the ranks in an accelerated time, passed my initiation, and become a member of the League of Shadows. Only after did I realize fully what I had done, and they had no intention of letting me go then."

"So how did you get out?" Bruce asks, wide-eyed, "Or rather, how did you become nurse-maid?"

"I failed my last few missions horribly. Every one they sent me on in the last two months, I screwed up. Ra's wanted to kill me, but Ducard spared my life. They kept me there as a slave, unable to escape, unable to fight, unable to live. Until they let me go, of course, which I still don't quite understand."

"What made you change your mind?" Bruce wonders.

I sigh heavily, "Another story for another time." Bruce sighs disappointedly too, but doesn't argue.

"Well, thank you for telling me that much," he kisses the top of my hand as Alfred walks into the room.

"I wanted to remind you of your party tonight," Alfred says, his crisp, clean voice breaking through the dusty memories, "And Ms. Dawes left this for you. She will not be attending the party."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce takes the box but doesn't open it in my presence, leaving me to wonder what's inside.

"This is going to be a big night," he tells me, "Are you ready?"


	15. When the Levee Breaks

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

"Happy birthday, Mr. President," I sing, swinging open Bruce's door. He turns around and smiles at me, fixing the bow tie on his tuxedo.

"Well?"

"Do I even need to say anything?" I ask sardonically. He looks dashing, as always.

He fiddles with the tie again, but shrugs, "I always hated these stupid things."

"Not quite a cowl, is it?"

"Nothing close," Bruce grins crookedly, "Why aren't you dressed?"

"Dr-dressed? For what?" I sputter.

"The party. Aren't you coming down?"

"Yeah, let me just throw on a cocktail dress and slap on some quick makeup," I laugh at him.

"You could come down for a minute, meet some people, mingle. Who knows, maybe you'll make a friend. I'll get one of those white chef's jackets and you can wear that," he suggests light-heartedly.

"No. The cook hates me anyway. I burned his shrimp poppers." I had wanted to withhold that piece of information from him, but oh well.

"So no shrimp poppers?" he pouts mockingly.

"Nope. And no Breezy at the party either."

"For my birthday?"

"No!" I exasperate, "'Sides, you got your present last night." He laughs a little and gives up. What was he thinking anyway? "When does it start?"

"In about two hours. I was just making sure the old suit fits," Bruce says. There is a shadow of worry in his eyes that I very much doubt has to do with his old suit.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"It's Rachel. She went to Arkham Asylum today to talk to Crane. I'd hoped she would call by now and tell me she's alright."

"Worried?"

"Yes. Very."

"Maybe you should go check it out. Make sure everything's okay," I suggest. Either that or he's moody for the rest of the night.

"I was just thinking that myself," he says darkly. On the way to the piano, Alfred catches up with us.

"But, Master Wayne, the guests will be arriving," he shouts after Bruce. Bruce yells a retort, but it's lost in the creak of the old elevator. For one brief second on uncertainty Alfred looks like a man who fell into the ocean, had a life saver thrown to him, and then realized the thing had a hole.

An hour later, those few people who are always really early to any party show up. I greet them, one of Alfred's butler jackets thrown on. I'm swimming in it, but the lumps protruding from my back are nearly unnoticeable.

"Hi. Hello. Welcome. Gutentag," I smile at the man who I thought looked slightly German.

"Thank you," Alfred says as he sweeps past me. Even though he's annoyed at Bruce, he's in his element, talking up rich people and offering champagne. The next man to walk past me has a beautiful, talkative woman on his arm, but as I smile and say "'Sup", much to Alfred's brief chagrin, I notice the subtle difference between this man's eyes and the ones around me. I have seen empty eyes like these before, and I wonder what they're doing in a place like this. But it couldn't be. It couldn't.

About ten minutes after the last guests arrive, Bruce struts into the grand hall.

I hurry to be near him. "Finally," I mutter as he walks past.

"Look who made it," he retorts.

People swamp him and we can't exchange any more loving greetings. I see him mutter something to Alfred, who signals to me, his fingers hinting at the room with the piano. Bruce shakes his head minutely at Alfred when he sees the gesture, and I know he doesn't want me down there in case I freak out again. It makes me a little angry, my pride sufficiently hurt, and I tramp angrily through the crowd towards the room. I do my best not to touch anyone, but a man bumps into my shoulder. I glare at him in passing, only enough time to notice his eyes. There's no way, so I don't even think twice on it.

I ensure that no one's coming, and slip through the bookcase. Cave-side, laying on one of Bruce's worktables and light up like a modern-day Ophelia, I recognize Rachel Dawes. She's passed out, but breathing hard. I gawk at her for a few moments, and then Alfred joins me.

"What are we supposed to do?" I ask.

"Take her home. Bruce gave her the antidote and a sedative already," Alfred hoists her up onto his shoulders and grunts under the weight. I flutter around him uselessly, trying to help.

"Just … just go back upstairs," he finally says. I obey, glad to be of no use. I get back to the party just in time to see Bruce's back stiffen as he greets an Asian man. An older lady fawns at him, but I bet that if he had to repeat her words back he couldn't for his life. Of course, he is full of surprises. A hand clamps down on my shoulder as I make a move to join him, a deep, scary feeling as potent as a boulder in my gut. I spin around and fight with all my willpower to hold back my scream. I'm dragged away to a side room before a thought can register in my brain.

"What are you doing here?" I snarl after the door closes behind us quietly, ominously.

"Our job," the man growls back.

"Not here," I sniff, tears pooling, and think to myself "Geez, have I gone soft or what?" They've ruined my whole life, and they're back to ruin this too.

"Gotham is corrupt. It must be destroyed," the man says mechanically.

"Over my dead body," I knee him ruthlessly in the balls. He must be a newbie, because he doubles up from pain. I attempt to rush out, but the man's arms encircle my waist, trapping my own arms. He's not as weak as I thought. I try to whack at him with my wings, but they're still stuck under the jacket. We struggle at an impasse for a few seconds, neither gaining, neither giving up. Finally, I muster up the strength necessary to break his hold and grab a candle stick while he's still wondering how I escaped. I'm not as weak as he thought. Before he can react, the candle stick connects with his forehead with a stomach-emptying thump. He falls. I throw the jacket over his bleeding face, abstaining the sight from my eyes.

Out in the grand hall, the party is in shambles. All of the guests have left and Bruce is talking calmly with some men. They're everywhere, I realize. Every corner of the room houses a watching man. It is them.

Ducard turns to look at me and smiles, a hint of sadness hidden in the cold folds of his face. Bruce looks like his world is shattered and raining around him in tiny, bite-sized pieces.

"Interesting company you keep, Mr. Wayne," Ducard notes dryly. I start towards Bruce, but Ducard holds up his hand to stop me, "Not another move, Breezy." I wonder idly what exactly is trained on me now and how much it will hurt. Another section of my mind, one that hasn't seen the light of neurons in ages, starts analyzing just what I could do to escape.

"Really. Quite interesting that she's here. For all your 'sparing lives' ideals that is," Ducard smiles evilly, coldly now. Bruce doesn't reply and I half-hope that he hasn't heard. "Bruce? Didn't you hear me? No matter, I'll tell you the rest anyway. Or hasn't your little girlfriend told you already?" Bruce shakes his head slowly back and forth, stalling, I realize. Getting the bad guy to talk so Bruce has time to make a plan. Only he's sacrificing me to do it.

"No? She never told you how many people she's killed? How many lives she's ended, single-handedly? But she is a liar, isn't she. She probably told you that I, what was that term, Breezy? Ah yes, _manipulated_ her into the League of Shadows, didn't she. Lies, Mr. Wayne, all lies. People were dying by her hand, and I was sent to check it out and found her, reckless angel, covered in righteous blood." I start to twitch nervously. Bruce is staring at me now, and the look is so real it can't be part of his plan. "I didn't manipulate her into it. I gave her a purpose for killing, structure, if you will. So I'm just curious as to why you so hypocritically keep her company."

"No," I whisper, hatred for Ducard filling my brain with red mist. I know this mist. This mist feels like coming home, it's been suppressed so long.

"She's not stable, Bruce, mentally. Something to do with the DNA battling within her," Ducard says this now softly, like he regrets it.

"That's not true!" I shriek, my entire body trembling with a mixture of anger and fear as explosive as dynamite. Ducard just nods understandingly, as if that proves his point. A man approaches me, and my leg flies out of its own accord, knocking him into a wall. I make a dash for specifically anywhere but here.

"Run, Breezy, like always," Ducard's voice carries to me and rings in my head as I leap into the night sky. Tears are streaking down my face, leaving angry red lines in their burning wake. Memories, repressed memories bombard my mind. Fresh, warm blood flowing between my fingers. Strangled voices begging for help. Evil draining out of their eyes like a plug had been pulled. A wind buffets me around, my concentration lost in it. I am facing Wayne Manor again in the distance. It's in flames. Bruce.

I haul back to the mansion, flying as fast as I can. A man is slumped at the doorway, a gun still cocked on his lap. I barrel through the front door and see Alfred struggling with a beam and shouting, his words lost in the witches' cackle of flame. A dark body wriggles under the beam. Together, Alfred and I lift the log off of Bruce and Alfred grabs him and helps him to the unknown elevator. My hands are so heavy with guilt I cannot raise them to assist Alfred. Bruce hasn't taken one glance at me.

In the cool seclusion of the falling elevator, Bruce shakes his head forlornly and says words that my ears are too dirtied with memories and shame to hear. We slam to a halt and I am the first one out of the elevator, collapsing at the water's edge for a drink to rid my lungs of soot.

"And why do we fall, sir?" Alfred's voice strains to be heard through the gloom in my mind. I dunk my head under the water so I don't have to hear the rest.

I surface to hear Alfred say, "Never," and smile tiredly, helping Bruce to his feet. I wander back over to them, my eyes carefully analyzing the cracks in the cave floor.

"Breezy?" Bruce's question, his simple acknowledgment of me, startles me against a cave wall. "It's okay," he holds out his palm, showing me a gesture of peace.

I slap the silly gesture away and mutter something that was supposed to be "I'm fine."

He understands me, though, and says, "I know. But I need your help now. Can you help me?"

I only respond with a nod because the answer is obvious. I'd do anything for him.

"Good. I need you to go to the Narrows and start protecting people."

"From what?"

"Themselves. Inject the ones you think are the most dangerous with these." He hands me some syringes. "… And don't … hurt anyone too badly."

Guilt rips through me and I can't stay there, under their judging eyes anymore.

**A/N - You guys can thank insomnia for this one :P**


	16. Knockin' on Heaven's Door

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

The rumble of Batman's vehicle erupts beneath me. I trail above and behind it into the city. From my high vantage point, I can already see the fog that covers the island.

Batman leaps over the closing bridge in a blast of turbo-charged testosterone. As he emerges from the darkness of the car, I land at his side. He hands me a syringe wordlessly and I jam it into my bicep.

A man with thick, black glasses runs over to us. He barely glances at me, standing at Batman's side with wind-tossed hair and cheeks ruddy from the cold night air. The fear in his eyes is swamped by courage. In the middle of this cold night, with a city falling to pieces around me, my heart warms with hope at the sight.

Bruce, his voice deep and rugged in disguise, instructs the man. As they part, the man finally acknowledges me with a slight dip of his head.

"Ready?" Batman looks down at me. I nod, but his eyes are drawn away from me, and he bounds away like a dog chasing after its bone.

"Br…" I grind my teeth to a halt, and make a move after him, but a baseball bat type object slams in between my shoulder blades. I groan, and crinkle to the ground. A mob of wild-eyed people surround me, their faces chaotic. The baseball bat smashes into my ribs, and I gasp loudly. The bastards. The bastards broke my ribs. In less time than their incapacitated brains can function, I am twirling on my feet, my fists clenched together in a tight ball and my wings flailing out around me. I duck and weave out of the way of their weapons, my muscles working on their own and my mouth hanging open in concentration. I escape the circle, but turn back to them, my hands now as straight and rigid as an ironing board. Everywhere I turn, I see pressure points. People fall to the ground like rain.

I dash away, eager to fight some more. The pain is suppressed by the long years or training.

Another mob is beating on some poor individual. I leap into the center, using the same effective tactics as before. Inflict as much pain as possible. The victim is struggling to stand, I knock away a man twice my size and my first clear sight of the victim reveals a black head with two tiny horns. My attacks increase with renewed vigor. Batman sees me, my visage collapsed upon itself with fury and my eyes almost as wild as those around me, and I think a flash of regret slinks into his eyes, but he is flying through the air before I can assure myself. The train rumbles over us, and Batman is flying underneath it, his grapple secured. I smile and turn back to the stunned mob, my fists rising in anticipation. The fate of Gotham is no longer on my mind; the only thing is the fight.

I collapse against a building, the air ever so slowly clearing up. Everywhere I look, people are lying on the ground, groaning. Most of them are bleeding. Some are dead. My head falls back to rest against the cold brick of the tenement and every ache I have ever had haunts me. I turn my face to the sidewalk and cough, blood spurting from my mouth. The beating I have taken tonight is undoubtedly the worst, worse than all the fights of my youth, worse than my League training.

When my eyes close, Bruce's face is painted on my eyelids. I hope he is okay. I hope he is alive. I hope he will forgive me. I hope he will be happy. I hope he will not save me.

A white light envelops me. Heaven? I think not. A searing smell that can only be described as sterile fills my nose, makes me gag. As my stomach revolts with a sharp jolt, all the pains avalanche in on me. My ribs, my head, every bone in my body. I can't take it. A scream develops in my lungs, but I have not the power to push it out. It stays bottled up inside my throat, burning.

"It's awake!" a voice squeaks excitedly. My eyes force themselves open, and a man is two inches from my face. He has a narrow face, a pointy nose, and big, brown, curious eyes. "Beautiful," he exclaims. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. Let me die now. Let me die. I close my mouth and squeeze my nostrils together, a sad attempt at suffocation. I cannot hold it, no matter how strong my willpower.

"Shh, don't move. Go back to sleep," he urges me. I glance wildly at the table to my right. A scalpel, my savior, fills me vision. I grab at it abruptly, my mere movement shocking the man. My shoulder grinds and my ribs scream. My fingers enclose the little scalpel, making new cuts, and I raise it above me … it won't move. My hand, my arm, my fingers holding the scalpel. They won't move from the table. I am powerless. Panic seizes me, and there is nothing I can do. The scientist, for that is what he must be, snatches the scalpel and on second thought moves the table away from me. He leaves me to wallow in my prison.

Eternities later, a new face enters my vision. A new face, but a familiar face. A face that should not be here.

Bruce's hand grazes my jawbone. Even with him here, the panic holds me tight in its grip. Powerless.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He didn't. He couldn't have done this to me. I hate him, I hate him. "I never should have asked for your help. I never should have gotten you involved."

"Where …" I sigh, the word raking my throat on its way out.

"You're in a private section of the hospital. Only your doctor and nurse know you're here. I've taken care of the rest," Bruce says. Relief, of a kind, soothes me. I don't hate him. Never could anyway.

He continues to talk about what happened. He stopped Ducard, blew up most of Wayne Tower, saved Gotham, and burned down his mansion. The Narrows is gone to hell, but remedies are being issued and at least the rest of the city is normal.

I, on the other hand, am not so good. I sustained life-ending injuries, and he wasn't expecting me to open my eyes again. He has been here waiting for the past two weeks, while the good doctor tried to bring me back from Hades. Five of my twelve pairs of ribs have been broken, my spine hasn't been full-out broken, thank God, but it is fractured, my liver has been lacerated badly, my stomach has been punctured by my broken ribs, my right shoulder is broken, my left arm is practically shattered, my left leg is fractured, and both my wings have been broken in various spots. The doctor, Doctor Miller, has reset all bones, including those in my wings, which impressed me, and sewed up the hole in my tummy, and performed some sort of surgery to patch up my liver. The technical terms fly over my head. All I want to know is how long I'll be stuck here, if I am ever to escape.

"Doctor Miller says that, based on the surprisingly fast rate that you've woken up at, you should be able to leave in about … one month, and that you'll have to be under surveillance for another three," Bruce delivers my sentence quietly, his eyes fixed on the white bed sheet.

I shake my head wearily. "Don't move," Bruce reminds me, "Would you like to go back to sleep? They can do that. Blink once for yes, twice for no." I blink once. Bruce fetches Doctor Miller, who smiles warmly at me, and blackness reigns once again.


	17. Cruel to be Kind

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

The months slip over me like a river of silk, leaving only faint memories on my skin of cold needles and Bruce's hand in mine. There are shocking flashes of pain, rips in the silk, baring open the extent of my love. But after two months of time lost quickly, Dr. Miller releases me.

Bruce sneaks me away in the dead of night, wrapping me in thick blankets and depositing me in a wheelchair for the trip outside. Outside, I haven't been outside in two months. The realization shakes me and it feels as if my soul is trying to rip itself away from this revolting body. Two months without wind in my hair, two months without pure sunlight on my face.

As we near the automatic doors, my fingers, lying dead for two months and now back with a vengeance, slam the brakes down on the wheels, throwing me out of the chair. Bruce yelps, and rushes to pick me up, but I have not fallen to my knees yet. I stand, shakily pushing his hands off my shoulders, and determinedly walk through the doors, collapsing in the Rolls Royce that waits at the edge of the sidewalk.

Bruce walks around, sits down next to me, and nods to Alfred. "I'm not amused," he says, looking straight ahead.

"Me neither," I sigh, sinking further down in the seat.

"This is going to be harder than I thought, isn't it?"

"Pro'ly." A yawn forces itself out.

"Please," Bruce turns to look at me, "just listen to me. It's going to be a long time before you're yourself again and you can't exert yourself too soon or all your progress will be lost."

"Progress?" spitfire stirs in me, a good sign surely, "You call this progress? I haven't taken more than twenty steps in two months. I can't even use the bathroom by myself."

"You're better than you were at the start of those two months," Bruce says softly.

"I didn't need all those surgeries, all that medicine," I strain to sit up, my body as weak as a newborn's.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. You would've died."

"I do know. And it's not bullshit." Bruce gapes at me, but cannot force out any more argument. Alfred sits stonily listening in the driver's seat, his knuckles white in the dark.

"Did you … not want to live?" Bruce asks quietly, his energy suddenly as depleted as mine.

"Not like this," I regret the words the instant I say them, for Bruce's face scrunches up, and I can see a little boy in there, crying for his parents, hearing things he wished he never would. "Sorry. Just tired," I fake a quick yawn for him, and settle my head on his shoulder. Mechanically, he wraps his arm around me.

I wake up in an unfamiliar room. For a moment, I believe that last night was a dream, and that I'm back in the hospital. One wall is windows though, the sun streaming across me, and the city sparkling as well as it knows how outside. I recognize the place as Bruce's penthouse. Alfred bustles in, just like he used to, only this time with more wrinkles.

"Good morning, Ms. Breezy. Can I interest you in any breakfast? An omelet, perhaps?" he asks, pulling the covers down and holding out his arm to help me. I ignore it, too stubborn to accept his help.

After I slowly make my way to my feet, my face splits in a wide grin, "You're the best, Al."

He just smiles, no reprimands or anything. He must've really missed me.

As he leaves, I stretch my arms up as high as they'll go, my repaired ribs screaming in protest. My legs jerk towards the door, and my face tenses in concentration. Hello, you're just walking, my brain yells at my body. Bruce enters and holds his arm out for me just like Alfred did. I straighten completely, and stroll past him, only giving myself away with a slight wince. I can see Bruce shaking his head in my peripherals.

I literally inhale Alfred's omelet and bacon, stopping only to take sips of milk.

"I employed a personal trainer to help you," Bruce announces. I practically spit out my food and shake my head vehemently at him.

"Yes," he replies, "Don't worry." I roll my eyes.

"Just do this. Please?"

I swallow the lump of egg and frustration, and say "No."

"Yes."

"I don't need a personal trainer. I'm my own personal trainer, remember?"

"Please, Breezy. This man will really help you if you give him the time," Bruce says.

"I don't have the time," I mutter.

"What?" Bruce glares intently at me, his eyes burning.

"Nothing," I take another monster bite to avoid more talk. Bruce lets the conversation drop, but he's still full of suspicion. After breakfast, I ask Bruce to take me to Wayne Manor. He looks unsure, but I convince him it's because I want to salvage for any of my belongings that might have survived the fire.

There is nothing but ashes, mere shadows of the great mansion. We get out of the car, and Alfred kills the engine. "Be careful," Bruce tells me. I nod.

Alfred shadows my every movement as we scour the ruins, most definitely on Bruce's orders. After an unsuccessful hour, and much annoyance because of Alfred's behavior on my part, I gather the courage. Bruce doesn't need to protect me, I don't _want_ him to, and he needs to learn that before he pushes anything else on me. Let's see Alfred follow me here.

I break into a wobbly run, and explode into the sky. I can hear Bruce yelling for me on the ground, and I ignore him happily. My wings are stiff with under-use, but they hold me aloft. A stream of wind catches me, and I am off above the trees. I tire quickly though, and spiral to the ground. My landing ruins the whole show. My legs buckle underneath me, and I collapse on the ground, covering myself in soot.

Even though the landing was much less than satisfactory, I grin as I pop to my feet.

Bruce, however, is not grinning. "What the HELL do you think you're doing?" he yells, sweeping over the mountains of ash like the Ares, the Roman god of war.

"Going for a little flight. I figured I couldn't do it in the city," I shrug.

"Never again!" Bruce rubs his hand over his face, trying to scrape the stress away.

"Never again?" My hands orbit to my hips.

"Not until you're healthy!" Bruce revises.

"I'll do what I want …" I sneer the ultimate motto of rebellion.

"Not. Until. You're. Healthy," Bruce growls.

"_When_ I want," I finish with a glare.

"Don't _do_ this to me, Breezy!"

"What?! Why do you care anyway?" I explode.

"Why ... "Bruce mutters angrily, and then responds, "How could I not?"

"Don't lie to me. You're just doing this out of pity. Well, drop it," I know it's true. It's true.

"You don't know what you're taking about!" Bruce cries, and then says quietly, "How can you think that I don't care for you anymore? After all that happened?"

"Who could?" I cross my arms across my chest resolutely, guarding my heart.

"_I_ could, Breezy, I could," Bruce takes a step nearer to me, and I take one back.

"Just stop it!" I scream, my lungs squeezing the last bit of air out and my voice squealing on the last word. "Stop trying to protect me, stop suffocating me, just stop caring about me!"

Bruce is silent for a few moments, and then he whispers, "Why're you doin' this?"

"It has to be done," I respond mechanically.

"No, it doesn't."

"It's the best way."

Bruce shakes his head, angry again, "Have you ever _tried_ letting anyone in, Breezy? Are you even capable?"

"No. I can't be that confined, Bruce. I can't be that vulnerable."

"You only focus on what you can't be. What about what you can be?" Bruce holds his hands out to me, and the mood around us morphs, and I can feel that we are no longer strictly talking about my own fear of commitment.

"I can be weaker," I say bluntly.

"It's not weakness, to love someone," Bruce says, but the tone of his voice is much more begging than assertive.

"Yeah it is. It's weakness to let someone in so close that anything they do will hurt you. It's weakness to allow them to be hurt, and by doing so hurt yourself," the words tumble unknowingly from my mouth.

"No, it can't be that way."

"It is. I'm sorry, Bruce. It should have never gotten this far. I knew from the beginning that this was set up to fail." I hate to break him like this, but it needs to be done. After what happened to me and the way he reacted to it, I could not let myself be in the way again. I refuse to be his weakness, and I pray to God that he figures it out eventually. Leading the life he does, he can afford no more weaknesses.


	18. Still the Same

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

**A/N - I just had to get this out for all you who want a Thanksgiving gift that tastes better in the mind than a turkey ^^ Egotistic? Me? Never :) Anyway, this'll be it until ... probably next weekend or beyond. But props to me for getting it out so fast. I think I broke a personal record :P Enjoy.  
**

"I fear we will be feeling the reverberations of this in years to come," Alfred confides to me, as he drives me back to the city. Bruce remains at the mansion, for what reason I know not, but probably so he won't have to endure being within ten feet of me.

"_You_ will be feeling them," I emphasize.

"You are really going to leave us then?" Alfred frowns.

"Yeah."

"May I ask why? Have we treated you badly, given you reason to leave?"

I wince, "Of course not, Al. You two mean a ton to me and you know it. It's just that … I don't know."

"Then, may I stress, _why_ exactly are you leaving?"

"Because I have to!" Doesn't a soul understand? "I hate the city, I hate the lack of freedom, I hate staying in one spot, I hate being in the way, I hate Bruce for having to feel like he needs to protect me."

"Ah," Alfred nods.

"What?" I challenge, in a bad mood already.

"I understand now," Alfred replies confidently. I doubt he does. "You dislike the way that love chains you to one person, you fear it, and so, you push him away."

"No, that's completely selfish," I exasperate, "If you really must know, I just … can't stand being his weakness."

"That's what you tell yourself, at least," Alfred reprimands, "But we both know the truth of the matter, even if Master Bruce believes your lie."

"It's not a lie!" I shriek defensively.

"Maybe not, but it's not the whole truth."

"What is the whole truth, Alfred? Really? The truth is nothing, only what you choose to believe. Is it the truth that Bruce is out-of-his-mind, straight-jacket crazy? Or is it that he believes in a higher purpose and uses any means necessary to achieve it? Is it a little of both, maybe? But which do people choose to see, Alfred? That is the only truth that matters. _Their_ truth. So, maybe I _am_ afraid, maybe I _am_ running away like the coward I know I am, but as long as Bruce doesn't believe that, the truth is that I won't sit around and be a thorn in his side!"

Alfred is silent after my outburst for the rest of the ride back. As we get out of the car though, he says, quietly, "Isn't love worth it?"

"Love? Love, Alfred? Love is as non-existent as truth. It is only something people choose to believe in. I am not one of those people."

"Ms. Breezy, up until this time, I have considered you to be a decent person, well-rounded, thoughtful, considerate, maybe a tad non-committal, but surely I saw you not as a cynical fool. I suppose next you'll tell me that you don't hold any stock in hope, either."

"Well, actually …" But Alfred storms away before he can hear it, before I can break his heart some more too. I have never really seen him angry like this before. Maybe _disappointed_ is a better word. For a swift moment of vulnerability, I collapse against the side of the car, my body overly tired by the physical and emotional work-out of the day. But the mood scabs over, and I'm angry and upset and confused again.

I avoid Alfred as best as possible. I make my own dinner, and seclude myself in my room, for we all know that's what I'm best at, seclusion. This feels like a broken record. I have fought with Alfred over this subject before, when departure wasn't on the horizon and Wayne Manor wasn't a pile of dust. He knows who I am, or rather what I am, and he knew from the beginning that this would happen. Why is he still upset? Did he expect me to change, just like that? I scoff at the picture of his saddened face that will probably eternally remain stored in my memory. When Bruce finally arrives home, I don't have the guts to face him either.

Panic seizes me wholly, from cerebrum to heart. Like a whirlwind, I bounce around the room, packing my belongings. Some money would be nice for the trip, but I can't bring myself to steal from Bruce, even though he wouldn't mind, or wouldn't notice. I can't stay here, I can't I can't I can't. I feel like a child, stomping my foot stubbornly on the ground. There is no argument with those children.

My only hope is that one of them doesn't catch me, because then I will surely chicken out, and if I chicken out I might never leave. The lack of closure? No biggie, I'm still gone like the wind … no pun intended. Never seeing them again? I'll cope. My - gulp - love for Bruce? Again, I'll get over it. But physically saying goodbye? Unbearable.

As I pause at the door, I allow myself to consider staying one last time.


	19. Like a Rolling Stone

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

The kitchen floor squeaks as I whisper across it, my feet barely touching the floor. I slam myself against the cabinets, a ready story flying to my lips. But I am still the only one in the penthouse.

I could not bring myself to take money from Bruce, even though he has so much he probably wouldn't notice, but I will take some food with me.

The pantry door creaks open with all the noise of a rusty dungeon door, and I cringe. Anxiety leaves my body with the sweat that drips down my forehead. I've never been so nervous in my entire life.

Raiding the pantry, my hands take over. They have done this many times before, and know what food to take and what will spoil. As I close the door, my last job finished, the light flicks on, and a gasp cuts the air behind me.

I swirl around, the same story on my lips. I need to go check up on some friends, but I'll be back soon. It's lame, but hopefully will get me out the door.

But the gasper in the doorway is not sweet, old Alfred, or my Bruce. It is that woman, Bruce's woman. Rachel.

"Wha – What are you?" Her face is frozen in shock, her mouth hung in a perfect O.

"Um," is all I can muster. Relief is coursing through me, smoothing my frayed nerves. I can still escape. My relief is cut short, though, as Rachel grabs a black box from the purse slung around her shoulders.

"Don't move," she warns, but her voice cracks with fear.

I stare slack-jawed at her. Who is this tiny woman with her walkie-talkie that thinks she can order me around? But I don't move.

"Who are you?" she rasps, trying to sound tough.

"My name is Breezy," I say slowly, holding my hands out in front of me, palms to her.

"What are you?"

"I'm … Bruce's friend," I say reluctantly. I feel anything but that right now.

"Really?" her voice drips with sarcasm, "Let's go get him then."

"No!" I jump at her, but she shakes the box at me again.

"Don't move!" she shrieks. Too loud, we're too loud. He'll come for sure.

"Please," I whisper, falling back into my previous position, "You can't get him. He can't know I'm leaving." The box droops slightly, pointing at the floor instead of me. I take advantage of the lapse and cross the room in three long strides, twisting the box, a taser I realize, from her hand. She whimpers in pain. I must've twisted her wrist a bit too hard. "Please," I whisper again, "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need to leave."

She glares up at me, but something about the way my face looks, or maybe the fact that she is glaring at me like she did before, sparks recognition. "You're that girl, the one that was at Wayne Manor."

"Yes, and I'm leaving." You get him all to yourself.

"You have wings." The question throws me off guard, but it shouldn't. It's always one of people's first responses when they see me.

"Um, yeah. Make Bruce explain. But not too soon. He probably won't want to talk about me for a while."

"Why not?" Even if I didn't feel ridiculous competition from her, she's too nosy for my liking.

"Because he doesn't want me to go …" I pause, suddenly unsure of my strife. Does he want me to leave? He seemed so mad earlier … But Rachel and her never-ending string of questions interrupt my thoughts.

"Then why are you leaving?" Is it that obvious that I don't want to? Did she pick up that tinge of regret?

"I have to," I scoff, unwilling to explain myself. Again. But she just stares at me, uncomprehending.

I want to tell her. I want to tell her the truth. I can't, but I want to. I just want somebody to understand, somebody to throw some pity my way, somebody to sympathize with my situation, I just need _someone_ to understand. Maybe this woman who I portrayed in my mind as the enemy, maybe she's the someone. I dive off the cliff.

"I'm a coward," I exhale, "I can't stand to be in love, I can't stand to be immobile, and I can't stand having someone else in here with me. If Bruce … if he loves me too, then I'm right where he is in my heart. Close to it, close enough to crush it. I can't be given that power, can't be trusted with it."

"Love is a many-splendored thing," Rachel says, trying to soothe me. What a mess I must look. "Just because you have someone's heart doesn't mean you'll hurt it."

"We've never met before, have we? Well, I'm Breezy, and I fuck _everything _up." Ah, cynicism, my best friend.

"If Bruce … loves you," the words are as hard for her to say as they are me, "you shouldn't run away from him. He's great."

"I know," I say defensively, "But, I don't even know if there's a Bruce in there anymore really, and Batman, well, Batman has enough axes hanging over his head. He doesn't need one held by me."

Rachel nods, contemplating, but a crippling sadness tears her face apart. Shit, she loves Bruce. And I just told her that he probably disappeared inside himself. Well, prime example of how I screw everything over, at least.

"Bruce knows what's best for him. If it was best that I stay, he would have caught me by now. But he didn't, and you, of all people, did. If anything, this is Gotham's door hitting me in the ass on the way out," I crack a little smile at Rachel, but she glares at me some more. "Listen," I continue, "don't believe what I said. I'm sure once this Batman phase passes over, he'll be back to his old self."

Rachel nods again, but she doesn't believe me. She can't leave him too! Shit, what have I done?!

"Promise me something," I shoot at her. Like she owes me anything, like she has to promise _me_ anything, "Promise you'll always be there for him, like I never could be. Please."

She hesitates. Shit. "I will," she tells me. Tells me. Lies. There is nothing more I can do.

"Give him this," I shove a note into her hand. I never got to pass notes like all the other eight-year-olds on this planet, but Bruce needs to know this, and I can't tell him. "And don't … read it … and tell him …ask him …" My mind carries me away on a magic carpet through time and space, dumping me off in a cold, deathly, dark monastery.

_The doors are thrown open, the wind howling through the room in an instant, and an entirely clothed figure falls inside … The man, it must be Wayne, looks around the room … Ducard smiles and puts a genial hand on the man's shoulder, before punching him in the gut … I lean over Wayne and look into his fading brown eyes. There is still some life in there, for he reaches up and touches my face, confused by the presence of a woman, before moving his hand to stroke the feather-covered structures sprouting from my back._

"_What is an angel doing among the shadows?"_

"Ask him what an angel is doing among the shadows."

* * *

Looking back at Gotham from the open sky, it is hard to believe what has happened in this city, or at least around it. I have lived happier than ever before, have been closer to death than ever before, and have loved harder than ever before. It may look like a normal, albeit corrupted city, but all of its secrets, good and bad, are waiting, if only you are willing to dig for them.

**Author's note – Stick around for the epilogue. Like always, tell me your thoughts :)**


	20. They Call Me the Breeze

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.**

**Author's note - I revamped it a little bit.  
**

Epilogue

The door swings open into darkness, and he knows.

More accurately, he knew. He knew all along.

Something left with her. Something about the atmosphere, he thinks, it's a little less … breezy.

The kitchen light is on, but his hopes are too far gone to be recalled. There is a woman, a woman he remembers loving, but not the one that stole the air right out from his lungs. She is holding a piece of paper in her hand, concentrating on the writing.

She looks up guiltily at him, "Bruce …" but her voice trails off into nothingness. She hands him the paper. "She … she wanted to give you this." He takes the paper, refusing to read it in the wrong woman's presence.

She leaves quickly, taking note of his mood, but pauses at the door. He turns to look at her, his brown eyes as big as a kicked puppy's.

"She wanted to ask you … what an angel is doing in the shadows." And then she leaves him, too.

He smirks slightly before reading the letter. He remembers the foggy, confused words. He always will. For a moment he let's himself slip backwards and live that moment again. Pain, coursing through his whole body. Pain and cold. And then ... a woman ... no, an angel is standing above him, saving him. That face, peering down at his fainting eyes, it is etched behind his eyelids forever.

_Bruce_

The handwriting is chicken scratch, barely even legible. Of course.

_Sorry._

He sighs, unsure if he wants to read the rest. It's only going to be her apologizing for his mistakes.

_Sorry I couldn't say this to your face. Too much of a wimp. Anyway._

She has to be so cute, doesn't she, he thinks, she has to be so positively irresistible. I have to want her so much, and know at the same time I'll never have her. No one will.

_I love you. Sorry about that too. It's all your fault really._

He laughs a little bit. He's never read a "Dear John" like this.

_Tell Alfred I said 'hi', or 'bye', or something._

Alfred. Now there's a mood killer.

_Okay, even writing I'm really awkward. Guess it's a talent. But here goes.  
I really do love you, no matter that I never said it, no matter how far away I run.  
I just need to explain myself so that you don't hate me or anything._

I never could, even if my life depended on it, he thinks, wishing she was here so that he could comfort her with that knowledge.

_You probably know why I left. Whole anti-commitment and everything.  
__Anyway, that doesn't change the fact that I love you,  
which is probably why it scares me so much._

_Anyway._

_I just have one request.  
One little thing. __Don't hate me for this.  
Please? Don't be hurt, it's not personal.__  
I know there's some secret love language where 'it's not personal'  
__really means it's all your fault, but I don't even speak a word of that.__  
And you probably know it.__  
_

_This is the crappiest goodbye letter you've ever read, isn't it? Admit it._

_Might as well end this thing with a bit of grace left to stand on.  
So, p.s. I love you, all that jazz. Think of me often, and keep me close to your heart where I'll be warm. _

_Goodbye._

_ -They call me the breeze, and I keep rollin' down the road._


End file.
